The Haunting
by ellasang
Summary: AU. Raised in foster care, Felicity Smoak has spent her life haunted by visions of a world she never knew. When she learns her biological parents have died and she has inherited the family estate, Felicity returns to unravel the mystery of those visions. Meanwhile, someone isn't happy to welcome her home, and bodyguard Oliver Knight means to find out who - before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a new fic I've been working on for some time, completely against my will. Oliver and Felicity won't get out of my head, though, so I've finally given up and allowed them to run rampant. This is a long one that's already largely complete, so I will be posting a chapter a day for the foreseeable future. Hope you enjoy!_

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For most of my life, I was the girl who could not be touched. I know: Hello, melodrama. It sounds like it should be accompanied by swelling music and some cheesy, ominous voiceover: _Felicity Smoak… (dun dun dun) The Girl Who Could Not Be Touched. _

Welcome to my world.

I screamed when doctors or nurses approached; squirmed away whenever someone tried to hug me; cringed if a teacher so much as patted my head. It's a hard sell in an orphanage, convincing prospective adopters to take a chance on the skinny blond girl who cries whenever anyone comes near.

They called it attachment disorder, at first. Chalked it up to a history of sexual or physical abuse, even though I had no such history. Later, when I told them about the voices, the visions, they called it schizophrenia. Paranoid delusions. These weren't paranoid delusions, though. These were six voices, and I knew them all as well as I knew my own. Six voices, belonging to girls who looked an awfully lot like me. Unlike me, however, who grew up being bounced from foster home to institution to state home and back again, these girls all grew up in an estate on an island I had never seen before.

I stopped talking about the girls by the time I was twelve, though the visions continued. Sometimes they were triggered by someone's touch, other times by the smell of pine needles, or an old song on the radio. Eventually, I could lie in bed and call them up all on my own. They were my secret shame and my only comfort, these imaginary friends who visited me in my loneliest hours.

Until I learned they weren't imaginary at all.

Merlyn Manor was an old Victorian mansion, the kind with towers and turrets and dormers, a wraparound porch along the south-facing side of the house. It was originally the home of Byron Merlyn, one of the most renowned painters in Maine history. Byron fathered Andrew, who was second only to his father on the Maine art scene; he in turn had Jared Merlyn, who bested both of them and, in 1966, was named the greatest painter in America by a panel of his peers.

I'd heard of the Merlyns the same way I'd heard of Grant Wood or Norman Rockwell, not because I knew anything in particular about them or their work, but because everyone had heard of them. To my knowledge I had never seen any of their paintings, knew nothing about their history; it definitely never occurred to me that the Merlyns were the family I had been searching for all these years.

The family home was located on Crab's Neck, an island two miles long off the coast of Maine – one of only a dozen such houses that were built there when a bunch of rich widows decided to start an artist's colony smack dab in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in 1868. Byron Merlyn, then a seventeen-year-old unknown from Saco, Maine, won a scholarship to attend a retreat on the island in the summer of 1879.

The rest, as they say, is history.

I learned all of this online, while traveling to the island from my home three thousand miles away in Portland, Oregon. While I may have heard of the Merlyns before, I knew nothing about Crab's Neck and I certainly had never heard of Robert Queen or Moira Merlyn-Queen, the couple whose attorney requested my presence for the reading of their will after a car accident had taken their lives a week before.

"I know it's a shock, Felicty," the man had said over the phone. Quentin Lance, he told me. Longtime personal lawyer and friend to the Merlyn family. "They gave you up for adoption when you were just a baby, but they never stopped thinking about you. Trust me, you want to make this trip."

I wasn't so sure about that, but Quentin paid for the ticket. Made transportation arrangements. All I had to do was show up.

When I looked at the pictures online, I realized he was right: I definitely wanted to be there for this. Partly because I wanted to learn more about the parents who dumped me when I was a baby, sure…but mostly because of the fact that I had seen the house shown in those online pictures before.

It had been the centerpiece of a series of visions that had haunted me for the past two decades. For twenty years, I had been searching for that house.

And now, here I was.

"Are you sure you'll be warm enough?" Reggie Merlyn asked me, for the hundredth time since he'd picked me up at the airport. Uncle Reggie – that was technically what he would have been to me, though I definitely didn't volunteer to call him that. My mother's brother. "We should have stopped at L.L. Bean on the way. "

"What I have is fine," I said automatically, also for the hundredth time. "I had to scrounge change for the peanuts on the plane ride out here – a three-hundred-dollar coat from L.L. Bean is definitely not in my budget."

He glanced at me, eyebrows raised, and I realized that was one of those things that should have stayed in my head rather than being said out loud.

"I mean," I said, closing my eyes against the blush climbing my cheeks, "it's not like I'm poor or something – I have a job. A good job, actually. But I just got a new car and I didn't want to take out a loan, so that took up most of my savings and—" _God, Felicity. Please stop talking._

I pulled myself up short, since Reggie had his eyes back on the road and his jaw was tensed, his fingers tight on the steering wheel.

"There may be some things in Moira's closet that fit you," he said. We were driving in his Lexus RX, the latest model by the look of it. We'd left the highway – or what passed for it out here – in favor of a pothole-laden Maine road straight out of a Stephen King novel. Drizzle was falling, greasing a road bordered on either side by brown crusted snow and dominated by pickup trucks and SUVs.

"You two are about the same size," Reggie continued, glancing at me. "Slender, I mean. Though you're shorter than Moira." I nodded numbly. It's not like I'm a shrimp, but I'm average if anything. "She was five-six, maybe five-seven. You?"

I hesitated, not sure what he was asking. "How tall am I?" He nodded briefly. "Uh – five-five, I think."

"Ah," he said. "Well… Yes. Robert was a big man, built like a football player. You look more like Moira – like our side of the family. I don't know where the poor vision comes from. Robert never wore glasses, and Moira has perfect vision." He paused, and swallowed hard. "Had. She had perfect vision."

For the first time, I saw grief leak through the oh-so-professional façade. I pushed my glasses up my nose as I tried to process what he'd said. For the bulk of my twenty-two years, the blue eyes, blond hair, and fair skin that I saw in the mirror every day had been a mystery. I didn't know where they came from. I didn't know where _I_ came from. Suddenly, that had changed.

I still wasn't sure what I was supposed to do with that.

"So, this island…" I began. I had a million questions, and no idea where to begin. The island seemed like the least loaded way to get started.

"Crab's Neck," Reggie supplied. "A beautiful place. We grew up there – Moira and I, with a constant stream of cousins and aunts and uncles going in and out."

"I see." I paused, my gaze drawn out the window once more. We passed the town marker for Warren, which I knew from that brief research was just a few miles from Thomaston, which was in turn a few miles from Port Clyde – where the boat launch awaited.

"Listen," I finally said, because it had been an hour and a half in the car and only twenty-four hours since I'd first heard about any of this, and all along a single question had risen above all the others clamoring around in my head. One question, that had been driving me crazy for my entire life.

"Yes?" Reggie said. He glanced at me coolly, the grief I'd glimpsed before effectively gone. He was a pale, fine-boned man who could have been thirty-five or fifty. I had seen him before – maybe that should have been my first question. What had he been doing playing with a little girl who looked eerily similar to me, in visions inside my head for the better part of my life?

I took a breath. "My mother and father… They stayed together? After they gave me up, I mean?"

Reggie's already thin lips thinned further. "Apparently so."

"So, then… I mean, maybe it's a silly question. But…" _Come on, Felicity, get it out already._ I closed my eyes. "Did they have other kids? Besides me?"

"No," Reggie said, after an unusually long pause. "They have no other children. As far as I know, at least."

"Wait," I said, the implication catching me off guard. "Does that mean you didn't know about me? You didn't know Moira had me?"

"I'm afraid not," Reggie said. "I had no idea until Quentin called and told me that I would need to meet you at the airport."

"Oh," I said. "Well… I guess we're even then. I had no idea you existed, either. Any of you."

Reggie grunted noncommittally, but said nothing more.

I thought of that phone call with Quentin again. _I know it's a lot to take in, Felicity, but please. You'll want to come._ I had thought I'd heard, over the line and three thousand miles away, a hint of compassion. _We want you here._

Right. Sure they did.

The ride to Crab's Neck took an hour once we finally reached the boat launch, riding in a boat that probably cost enough to pay off my student loans. Reggie said it had belonged to my father, MOIRA FOREVER written boldly across the side. I still had no idea what Robert Queen – my father – looked like, but I tried to imagine him out on the water in this boat. He and my mother would have gone out on trips together, wouldn't they? Had he been an artist, like everyone else in the Merlyn family? Did that have something to do with why they gave me up?

A pretty blond probably a couple of years older than me piloted the boat out, offering only a brief smile before her focus shifted to the horizon. Reggie and I rode in silence while I tried to imagine my family in this place. It was March, just ten days till spring. Reggie said it had been an unseasonably mild winter, but at temperatures that barely reached freezing and a biting wind, it felt anything but mild to me.

"So, climate change," I said, out of the blue. Reggie raised his eyebrows at me, while the blond woman – Sara, at least according to the name written in script on the breast pocket of her coveralls – glanced my way and then returned her focus to the horizon.

"What about it?" Reggie asked shortly.

"It must impact things around here," I said quickly. I really hoped I hadn't been born into a family of backwoods climate deniers. "I read an article about sea level rise in Maine, and the Gulf is one of the bodies of waters that has warmed most significantly in the past fifty years."

"Merlyn Manor is fine," Reggie said.

I frowned. "Well… That's good, I guess. But there must be fishing on the island. How are other people on the island adapting?"

"I caught a seahorse in my net this fall," Sara said, out of nowhere. "First one I've ever seen, outside of the Boston Aquarium. That was something."

"Species from warmer waters are migrating farther north," I said.

"Or else somebody took a wrong turn," Sara said dryly. I laughed, then stopped when she didn't smile. Maybe she hadn't meant for that to be a joke.

"You're interested in climate change?" Reggie asked. It was the first question he'd asked about me since picking me up at the airport.

"I was a double major in college: environmental science and landscape architecture. I've been working the past five years with a landscaping company in Portland, and they kept me on while I was going through school. It was a lot of work, of course, but I like being outside. And hard work in the sun is nice – I had a foster family that said if you couldn't work outside in the sunshine you might as well be dead in the dark, which always seemed a little…well, dark. But they weren't the sunniest people, and the father – Joe was his name, we always called him Handsy Joe because…well…"

_Please stop._

By the time I managed to put my mouth back in neutral, Reggie and Sara were both staring at me. Sara was smiling, something attractive and laughing in her blue eyes. Reggie didn't look amused, however.

"Hang on," Sara said. "It can get a little rough coming in, but we'll be docked in a minute."

I gripped the cold steel rail and looked out onto the water, my hair whipping around my face as freezing sea spray pelted my cheeks. Sara brought us into the dock without any obvious problems and then, with the engine still running, tossed a rope over the cleat on the wharf to pull us in. I watched, mesmerized, at the athleticism and casual grace of every movement.

Once we got Sara's nod, my uncle got out of the boat with the agility of a younger, much less dour man, and held his hand out to me.

"I've got it," I said. I stumbled clambering over the side, but I kept my hands to myself. Reggie eyed me with suspicion, but he didn't offer to help again.

Safely on the island, chilled to the bone, I paused to take in the scene around me.

A boat house stood at the end of the pier. I was plunged headlong into another déjà vu moment. Along one side of the building were kayaks and lobster traps, buoys painted blue and gray, yellow and red. If I went inside, I was ninety-five percent sure I would find two bunks along the far wall, seashells on the windowsill and an old fishing net suspended above. _We're not supposed to be in here,_ a girl whispered inside my head. Rose – one of the six who'd taken up residence in my mind years ago. I may have never set foot in that boat house, but Rose definitely had.

I looked away, the hair on the back of my neck on end. Diverting my focus, I looked around for what you usually find on islands: a ferry terminal and disembarking tourists, beat-up island cars and year-round residents toting their belongings in little wheelie carts.

Instead, I saw a couple of fishermen working on their boats in the water while a staticky radio played Van Morrison. "Brown-Eyed Girl." Sara nodded to Reggie, barely spared a glance toward me, and returned to the boat. She flung my backpack onto the dock without a word, gunned the engine, and sped away.

"Where's the…" I hesitated. "Everything. Where's all the stuff?"

"The 'stuff'?" Reggie asked, an eyebrow arched. "To which 'stuff' are you referring?"

"Civilization stuff. Cars, and a post office. People. I don't know. A road."

"Ah," Reggie said. He smiled faintly, for the first time since I'd met him. I hadn't even thought it possible. "That stuff. There is no road, or not a paved one anyway. The only vehicles are a couple of pickups owned by local fishermen.

"The post office is at the end of the lane there." He pointed to our right, vaguely inland. "There is a school in the same building, which also houses the library and volunteer fire department. The island is governed by a town on the mainland. The police out there respond if there's an issue here."

"Oh," I said. "That's…intimidating." I looked around. Fog hung low over the water, the air cold enough to breathe white. "You and my mother grew up here," I said, half to myself before I addressed the next question to Reggie. "And my father? Where was he from?"

"Away," Reggie said shortly.

I started to ask more questions, but Reggie stopped me with a silencing glare. I reminded myself again that he was grieving, and shut my mouth. Instead of more questions, I gathered my backpack and nodded onward. "I guess we should go."

Reggie nodded, grim, and led me on in silence.

According to my uncle, Merlyn Manor was on the other side of the island, though he assured me it was a short walk. I didn't care – being outside always feels better to me. I busied myself cataloging plants and wildlife, content to ignore my companion and travel in silence for the remainder of the walk. If it felt as though I'd walked this path a thousand times before, as though I knew well in advance exactly what I would find at every bend up ahead. I told myself that was just my imagination, and kept moving.

There was still snow on the ground, deep in spots where it had drifted, patchy in others. Spring may have had a firm hold in the Pacific Northwest, but apparently the East Coast hadn't gotten the memo. We crossed over deer tracks and a few delicate prints from birds that had lighted on the path, but there was no trace of the paw prints you'd see in a typical snowscape like this – no sign of squirrels or mice, raccoons or foxes. Which was understandable, since we were ten miles out to sea. Blue jays followed our progress from a distance, while chickadees and titmice perched on branches just a foot from my head, the whir of their wings the only sound apart from our breathing and the distant crash of waves.

The incline got steeper, our trail more narrow. I paused for a moment as a familiar sensation crawled along the back of my neck. A whisper, like the breath of some invisible enemy, crept along my spine. I closed my eyes. _Just ignore it. It will go away,_ I reminded myself silently. _There's no one there._

I opened my eyes and kept walking.

The feeling intensified.

Reggie stopped so abruptly that I almost crashed into him headlong. "My shoe," he explained, and paused to retie his boot.

While I waited, I looked around some more. The trail was bordered by pine and spruce, birch and hemlock. My eyes followed the path – up, up, all the way to a peak overlooking the ocean.

Sun glinted off glass panes, blinding me for an instant. And in one of those moments that's happened to me since I was a child, my vision sharpened, narrowed, until it was as though I looked through some supernatural spotting scope. I saw past the trees. Past birds, melting snow, and fading evergreens.

A man stared at me – directly into my eyes, watching from his vantage in the glass-paned house. He was tall. Dark hair, laughing mouth. Deep brown eyes that seemed to see everything. I knew him as well as I knew anyone. Maybe better. I had seen him in a thousand visions over the years; there was no doubt in my mind that this was the same person. This time was different, though.

This time, he saw me.

I gasped, tumbling backward. Out of the vision, and back to solid ground.

"Felicity?" Reggie said, impatient. "Come on. They'll be waiting for us. We should have been there an hour ago."

I pointed up the trail, far in the distance, where in reality the glass-paned fortress could barely be seen. "Is that… That's not the house, is it? Merlyn Manor?"

"No," Reggie said shortly, his voice tight. "That is Palmer Estate. Trust me, we have nothing to do with that place. We're this way."

After another few yards, the trail took a sharp right, taking us away from the man I'd seen watching me. The man who had seen me, or so it seemed. I dismissed the thought. I was imagining things – hardly new for me. If I'd learned anything in the past twenty-two years, it was that my own mind could not be trusted.

* * *

_I know, there's no Oliver yet. I promise, he'll be in the next chapter and will be omnipresent for most of the rest of the fic. If you enjoyed this, I would love to hear from you - I'm just returning to the world of fic after a long time away, and am a little nervous about being back! _


	2. Chapter 2

It turned out that "manor" wasn't really a fair word for the Merlyn home. The Merlyn Disaster would have been more accurate. Or Nightmare, maybe. It was definitely not in the same class as the glass-clad house on the hill, that was for sure.

At the look on my face, Reggie gave me another rare smile. "It's not to everyone's taste," he said. He sounded downright gleeful.

It was a Victorian home, just as the online article had promised. Three stories, set in the middle of a clearing that didn't look nearly as clear as I expected it had once upon a time. A window on the second floor of the manor had been boarded up, making the place appear to me like a one-eyed old man. Shingles had flown off the roof; I saw several frozen in snowbanks nearby. A wraparound porch with sagging steps and peeling paint awaited our entrance. It was a sad facsimile of the estate I'd seen in my visions, but there was no question that it was the same place.

"Watch yourself," Reggie said as he took the steps carefully. He didn't offer his hand this time. I was grateful.

I paused on the second step, and went still.

_Come find me, Uncle Reggie,_ a little girl called. The yard was transformed before my eyes: snow gone, green grass and leafy trees in its place. A blond girl peered at me from behind a lush elm tree in the front yard, a tire swing suspended from its branches.

Lucy – that was the little girl. Another of the six I'd been seeing since childhood. And now, incredibly, I was sure I knew where she came from.

A hand on my shoulder jerked me back to the present. I flinched, pulling away from Reggie before he could speak. He studied me in silence, forehead furrowed.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't," I said, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "I just don't like to be touched, that's all."

"My apologies. They're waiting for us."

The snow was back, the day grayer than it had seemed moments before. I forced myself back to the present, noting for the first time that an attractive man likely in his early fifties stood waiting for us, dressed in Dockers and a sport coat.

"You must be tired," he said. "I'm Quentin – Quentin Lance. We spoke on the phone. Come in. We've been expecting you."

I expected the inside of the house to be as bad off as the exterior, but I was wrong. The floral wallpaper was faded but in good condition, the wood floors recently polished. Antique sconces on the wall lit the way as I followed Quentin down the corridor. The house was warm and alive, and smelled faintly of gingerbread.

"When did you say my par—" I paused, uncertain, "—uh, Moira and Robert passed away?"

"A week ago tomorrow," Quentin said.

"And they lived out here?"

"No," Reggie said flatly. "Moira inherited the house from our parents. She and Robert lived here for several years, but they chose to close it up some time ago."

"So, no one lives here? It doesn't feel like an empty house. How long has it been since Moira and Robert left?"

"They moved just after Lu—" Quentin began. Reggie cut him off before he could continue.

"About twenty-five years. Roughly."

"The house has been empty for two and a half decades?"

"Not completely," Quentin said. "Thanks to the family legacy, the manor is a historical landmark. We have a caretaker who looks in on things regularly, and in the past several months Moira and Robert began taking on smaller renovation projects inside. I'm afraid the exterior has suffered from the disuse, however."

I thought of the shingles in the snowbank, the peeling paint and sagging porch, and silently agreed.

I followed Quentin and Reggie down another shadowed corridor, this one lined with formal portraits and dark, mournful New England landscapes that must have been painted by various descendants of the Merlyn line. I paused at one of the portraits, this one of a blond with predatory green eyes and a smile that was uncomfortably seductive for a girl who couldn't have been more than twelve. She was nude from the waist up, sheets bunched around her waist, her stare bold as she gazed at the painter.

How much longer, Daddy, Rose asked. I was in a bedroom, suddenly – the bedroom from the painting, seated on a four-poster bed in a room gone cold despite a fire blazing in the fireplace a few feet away.

The more you ask, the longer it takes. You moved again – head back, a quarter of an inch. I stared at a man with wild dark hair and angry brows, his gaze intent on his canvas. He stood a few feet away, powerfully built and larger than life. Rose moved her head back, and I felt the pinch in my own spine and a gnawing in my stomach.

I shook my head and jerked myself out of the vision, back to the real world. In front of me, Rose stared with a storm in her familiar green eyes. Suddenly, I paused. Was that a blemish on the painting itself, or had the artist intended to paint the mark on the girl's neck?

My hand flew to the same spot on my own throat, covered by my jacket at the moment. Quentin and Reggie both regarded me curiously.

Quentin paused alongside me. "That's—"

"Rose," I said quietly. He looked at me in surprise. "I read about the family," I said, fumbling for an explanation. "Online. There's a lot of information on the Merlyns out there."

"Oh," he said, though he still looked a little taken aback. "Of course. Yes." He paused, then nodded toward the painting. "The resemblance is eerie. Between you and Rose, I mean. I thought it the second I saw you."

Reggie sniffed derisively, but made no comment.

"Who was she?" I asked. "I mean… I know she was Rose. But, in relation to the family?"

"Rose Merlyn. Your…aunt, several generations back I think. Daughter of Byron Merlyn, and one of his most famous early models," Quentin said, pausing to sort out the family line in his head. He sounded sad just saying the name. A chill ran through me.

My friends call me Rosie, a voice whispered in my head. I saw the dark-haired man I always saw. Grinning, one side of his mouth tipped in a lopsided smile. Do they now? he said.

I pushed the images, the voices, far away. Quentin was still talking, but I was aware of Reggie watching me with narrowed eyes. I tried to focus once more on Quentin's words.

"It was a tragedy," he was saying. "A real tragedy. No one got over her running away like that – at least, not from the stories my father told."

"Your father?" I asked, seizing on just one of a dozen points to question.

"Quentin's family has been with us for years," Reggie said. "His grandfather was one of the stable boys for Byron Merlyn's prize quarter horses at the turn of the twentieth century."

"And now you're the family lawyer," I said. Quentin caught my eye, and I thought I saw a faint flush to his cheeks.

"I didn't start out that way. I was a cop for twenty years, then got injured in the line of duty. Your grandmother helped put me through law school. She was a good lady."

My grandmother. The idea made me dizzy. A day ago, all these familial roles had been nothing to me. I'd imagined aunts and uncles, cousins and grandparents, based on favorite movies; books I'd loved when I was little.

Now, suddenly, here they were. All the blank faces I'd wondered about, obsessed over, now filled.

"We should get in there," Reggie said. He caught my elbow to hurry me along, but released it immediately when I backed away. "Apologies," he said, half under his breath. "Just come on, then."

I followed him.

The dining room was as elegant as the rest of the house. A crystal chandelier hovered above the space, while a long oak table and ten elaborate carved dining chairs dominated the room. Across from it, I admired an expertly crafted Shaker sideboard and pie chest. The Antiques Roadshow has been one of my favorite shows since I was placed with a foster family of appraisers when I was ten. The placement was short-lived – they were too freaked out by my voices and visions to keep me, but my obsession with all things old since then served me well now.

I paused at the door to take in the other members of the family I was about to meet. There was a handsome dark-haired man with striking blue eyes, likely about the same age as Quentin. He sat beside another good-looking dark-haired man, this one about half his age, and a striking girl with auburn hair and the clean lines of a model. She was younger than everyone else here, probably still in her teens. Then, my attention was drawn to a fourth person in the room, who couldn't have looked less suited to the place. He had dark blond hair shorn buzzcut-short and striking blue eyes that took me in with unwavering attention. His shoulders were broad, something formidable about his physical presence even while he was seated.

"I know you've been waiting a while," Quentin began, addressing the others in the room. He moved to touch my elbow, remembered himself, and let his hand fall. "This is Felicity Smoak. Moira and Robert's daughter."

No one moved. No one spoke. Quentin looked at me apologetically, but before he could say anything more, a newcomer entered the room. She was small and fine-boned, mid-forties, with wavy red hair pulled back in a braid and warm green eyes. She had an efficient way about her that set me at ease the second she stepped toward me, her hand extended.

"Doctor Willa McLaren, Ms. Smoak," she said, with an unexpected Scottish brogue. "Please, call me Willa. I'm the family physician. I saw to Moira and Robert at the end. I'm just here to answer any questions while the family is gathered together."

I shook her hand reluctantly, but pulled away before any visions could take hold. "Nice to meet you, Dr. – uh, Willa."

She took a seat beside the man with the buzzcut, murmuring something to him that I couldn't hear. He nodded seriously, brow furrowed.

The young girl stood with what seemed like a genuine smile and extended her hand. "Thea Merlyn, Felicity. I'm so glad to meet you. I wish it could have been under better circumstances – Aunt Moira would have been so happy to have you here. Welcome to the family." No one else rose and it didn't seem like any of the others shared Thea's kind wishes.

"This is my brother, Tommy," she said. The younger dark-haired man nodded toward me, his smile considerably cooler than his sister's, and made no move to stand up. "And our father, Malcolm Merlyn." She glowered at the older dark-haired man seated beside her, since it didn't seem like he had any intention of getting up either. "Daddy? Isn't there something you wanted to say?"

Malcolm stood reluctantly, and I was surprised at how big he actually was. Not more than six feet probably, but there was something about him, a power that stemmed from the fact that he seemed to ooze money from his well-bred pores. He extended his hand, something cool and dangerous in his eyes.

"Nice to meet you, Felicity. It's a shock, but family's family."

I reluctantly accepted his hand. Instantly, a familiar blond teenage girl appeared in my mind's eye. She was with a bunch of other teenagers, surrounded by horses in a stable. _I'm taking Willow,_ she told the others before a young, handsome boy that I knew instinctively was Malcolm shook his head. _You've got Chance today_, he said. _He needs to stretch his legs._

The blond was Mara – third of the six in constant rotation in my head.

I pulled my hand away hastily, aware that the others were watching me.

"Good to meet you too," I mumbled. "So, you and Moira were…siblings?" I asked. He had to be twenty years older than Reggie, which struck me as odd. Malcolm shook his head.

"No – cousins, actually. 'Aunt Moira' just sounded better than 'Cousin Moira' to the children," he explained. "I'm the last remaining heir of Walter Merlyn – Jared Merlyn's much-less-renowned brother."

"And Jared Merlyn would have been my grandfather," I said, the family line slowly starting to make sense in my head. As soon as I had a few minutes, I would definitely need to write this whole thing down. With that sorted, I looked inquiringly at the man with the buzzcut, who still hadn't introduced himself.

"This is Oliver Knight," Quentin said, when the man made no move to say anything. "He worked for Moira—and your father, of course."

"Doing what?" I asked, when no one volunteered that information. Tommy snickered, and Oliver cast a look at the man that shut him up instantly.

"Whatever they needed," Oliver said. His voice was low, a little bit rough. "Chauffeur, security, caretaker… I helped where I could."

"Too bad you couldn't have helped the night they died," Malcolm said nastily. Oliver stared at him, and I thought I saw a flicker of pain in his eyes before it vanished.

"I was out of the country," he said to me, by way of explanation. I heard a trace of an accent there – Scottish, I thought, though it was very faint.

"What is he doing here, anyway?" Tommy asked Quentin, just as nasty as his father. These people must be a blast at parties.

"He was called here for the same reason all of you were called," Quentin said. "He is named in the will—"

Malcolm started to protest, but Quentin held up his hand. "Moira was very clear about this. Besides which, he'll be stepping in to provide support should Felicity need anything."

"I won't," I said immediately. "I mean – I'm only on the island for the day, and then I'm flying back to Portland tomorrow. I can handle things by myself for that time. I'm used to being alone." Once it was out, I was immediately sorry I'd said it. How pathetic could I possibly be? "Not in a bad way, like I don't have any friends or something. In a good way. I like being alone." _God, Felicity. Please stop talking._

A smile flickered on Oliver's lips before it vanished, and I caught laughter in his eyes – so unexpected that I think he was more surprised by the reaction than I was. He didn't look like the kind of guy who got a lot of yuks out of life.

"We'll figure things out once we're through with the will," Quentin said. He ushered me to a seat beside Willa, and I sank into it gratefully. She flashed me a sympathetic smile once more when Quentin turned things over to her.

"As I'm sure you're all aware," the doctor began, laying a large yellow envelope on the table, "there was very little that could have been done following the accident. Moira was airlifted to Maine Med." She frowned, then added gently, "Robert was pronounced dead at the scene."

"What about the other driver?" Thea asked. "What do we know about the asshole who caused this?"

If Willa was surprised at the question, she didn't show it. Before she could respond, however, Quentin stood.

"Dr. McLaren isn't here to talk about the investigation, Thea. The police have ruled the collision an accident; I have no reason to question their findings. If you have questions about the accident that relate to Moira and Robert's condition—"

"Well, it killed them, didn't it?" Malcolm asked dryly. "What more is there to say?"

"How did you find out about her?" Tommy demanded, nodding in my direction. "And why didn't we ever know anything? When did they change the will?"

Quentin looked at Willa in a silent exchange, and the doctor nodded her understanding.

"Moira was conscious when I arrived at the hospital," she began. "She'd lost a lot of blood, but her faculties were sharp as ever. She asked that I contact Quentin, and told me then about Felicity."

"She changed the will at the hospital?" Malcolm asked. "She was dying – had just been in a soon-to-be-fatal car accident. She's supposed to have it together enough to make that kind of decision, when Robert wasn't even there to help guide her?"

"I don't believe Moira ever needed Robert to guide her," Willa said, with an edge to her voice that pleased me. "She knew perfectly well what she was doing. The hospital psychiatrist will be able to attest to her mental acuity at the time."

"We covered all the bases, Malcolm," Quentin said, somewhat coolly. "She knew what she was doing. I'm sorry."

"So, what does that even mean?" Tommy demanded. I was really starting to dislike the man. "She could just cut us out of the will, for some unwanted daughter we never even knew existed?"

I looked up in surprise, the words landing the blow that clearly had been intended.

"That's hardly fair, Tommy," Quentin said, his tone sharp. Tommy frowned. "Felicity didn't do anything wrong. She never asked to be here."

"But now that she is, I bet she thinks she's won the lottery," Malcolm said. "Don't get your hopes up, dear." He winked at me. "Not one of us is willing to let this go without a fight."

I stood, unable to keep my temper any longer. "Look, Quentin is right. I never asked to be part of any of this. I never knew my parents – I had no idea until yesterday that this was what I was born into, and frankly the way you're all acting, I don't think I even—"

"That's enough," Quentin said, with enough force behind the words that I pulled up short. The room fell silent. "Everyone, sit down. Felicity, please." He nodded me back to my chair.

I realized that Oliver was watching me again, anger in his eyes now. I wasn't sure whether it was directed at me or the others in the room, but his intensity still unnerved me. I scooted my chair a couple of inches farther from him and took a breath, centering myself. I didn't need allies here. I'd made my way alone my whole life; did I really expect that to change now?

"You're all fighting like you have some clue what's in these papers," Quentin began, and nodded to a manila folder in front of him. "Moira and Robert had discussed what they wanted to do about Felicity, a child they gave up for adoption twenty-one years ago. Felicity, your parents followed your progress, despite knowing they could never care for you themselves."

The information stopped me cold. They had followed me how, exactly?

I had always imagined some poor teenager who got herself knocked up and didn't have the resources or the support to raise me; I convinced myself that my mother gave me up because she believed it was the best thing for me. But Moira and Robert weren't poor. They weren't even that young. And they definitely weren't single.

Instead, they were a well-established couple, with money and property and a life they could have given to their child. Yet they gave that child up. Watched from a distance when her first adoptive parents died, just two years after taking her in.

They could have come back, couldn't they? Had they known that I was orphaned at the age of three, and left a ward of the State? Did they 'follow my progress' when I was bounced from foster home to foster home, desperate to belong somewhere?

"They've wondered for years about what to do about you, Felicity," Quentin said kindly, as though reading my mind. "There were extenuating circumstances. Agonizing circumstances, which I can't go into right now. But I promise you, they didn't take any decisions having to do with you lightly."

I nodded, mortified when I felt tears flood my eyes. Quentin cleared his throat, thankfully shifting the focus before I completely lost it in front of a room full of strangers.

"At any rate, let's move on, shall we?" he said. "To the will."

He cleared his throat, but instead of focusing on the papers in front of him like I'd expected, he turned to a computer monitor I hadn't even noticed set on a rolling cart in the corner. Oliver got up with a grimace and wheeled the cart over, and the two fiddled with things for a couple of minutes before the monitor was hooked up to Quentin's laptop. My stomach was already in knots, but at the thought of what I was pretty sure was about to come, it tightened that much further. Oliver returned to his seat, and Quentin cleared his throat before he spoke again.

"I know this will be upsetting for all of you," he said, his eyes on me as he said the words. "Moira knew what kind of impact it would have, but it was important to her that she have this opportunity." He wet his lips and took a breath. "This was filmed in the hospital, not long before she passed away. Her injuries are extensive so, again… I apologize."

And, with that, he started the video.

An instant later, after some jostling of what looked like someone's camera phone, the image stabilized and then came into focus.

My mouth went dry.

My mother sat up in a hospital bed, her face bloody and swollen to the point of distortion. Reggie gasped; Thea choked on a sob. Malcolm cursed, while Oliver's entire body tensed as he looked away from the screen.

"I know this isn't the best moment for a big-screen debut," Moira said. The voice sang in my head, needling memories gone dormant with time. I knew that voice, and not from any visions. I remembered that voice.

"…but I'm afraid I had little choice in the matter. Now or never, as they say." She attempted a smile that came out grotesque, but I stayed fixed on her eyes. I knew those eyes, too.

"According to the doctors, I don't have a lot of time left – if I do pull through none of you will ever see this, and I pray that's exactly what happens." Her eyes welled. She swallowed hard, looked away from the camera for an instant, and then was back. "But I don't think that's in the cards this time. So, I wanted to take a moment to use this as my final will and testament. Robert—" She stopped again, this time for longer, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

"We can stop, Moira," Quentin said on the other side of the camera, but Moira resolutely shook her head.

"No. I'm all right," she said. Her voice wavered, but it was strong when she spoke again. "We talked about making these changes, but it never seemed the right time and now… Well. Now, here we are."

She took a breath, which was good because it reminded everyone else in the room to do the same. I waited for her next words, my eyes riveted to the screen.

"To my beloved brother, Reginald Mason Merlyn, I leave my full share of Merlyn Enterprises, which in life gave me so much joy. This gives you controlling interest in Father's company, little brother. I am trusting you to make the changes we talked about as children. Make me proud, dear Reggie. I know this is the last thing Malcolm will want, so please be safe."

I was so focused on Moira that I barely registered the fact that Reggie and Malcolm were having a full-scale meltdown until Quentin hissed "Hush, please!" as Willa appeared on screen and helped my mother take a sip of water.

She refocused on the camera again, with a smile that I knew would haunt me long after the tape was over. "To Oliver, our earnest protector for the past five years, I leave Robert's record collection, $250,000 in cash—" she glanced off-camera for a second, confused, and amended, "—or cashier's check, Quentin says. And, most importantly, this:"

She became intent, hyper-focused, and I glanced to my side to find Oliver staring at the screen with the kind of pain that cuts to the bone.

"This wasn't your fault, sweet man. I know you'll beat yourself up, you'll retreat, you'll rail against the injustice…but my fate was sealed the day I was born a Merlyn. It has nothing to do with you."

She hesitated and wet her lips, pain crossing her face again before she shut it down. "However, I am asking one last thing: Don't run from the Merlyn name yet. I have one last request for you – the most important, by far." Tears leaked from her eyes before she got control. Her face tightened, chin rising in an expression I recognized; I'd seen it in the mirror more than once. "Please. Protect our daughter."

"This is outrageous!" Malcolm shouted. He shoved himself in front of the screen, face gone scarlet. "A quarter of a million dollars to the thug Gracie was sleeping with?"

Well, that was a revelation. My eyes nearly popped out of my head at his words, but then Oliver was on his feet and my eyes were popping for a completely different reason. Oliver, who stood an inch or two taller than Malcolm and appeared to be as much muscle as man, grabbed my cousin around the throat and walked him backward until Malcolm's back hit the wall. Faces just inches apart, Oliver growled,

"If you ever disrespect Moira or Robert's memory like that again, I will come to you in the night and I will end you. Do you understand?"

Personally, I would have wet myself at that point, but Malcolm looked surprisingly calm. He stared at Oliver coolly, which I imagine is no easy task when you're being choked out.

"Let go of me, you Neanderthal. Whatever Moira saw in you—"

Oliver's hand tightened around Malcolm's neck until the man fell silent by default. It wasn't until Willa's hand was on Oliver's arm and she leaned up to murmur something to him that I couldn't hear that he loosened his grip.

"Everyone," Quentin said, sounding six miles beyond weary, "Please, sit down. I realize this is difficult, but let's try to get through this."

After another minute or so of charged silence, everyone reclaimed their seats. I was the only one who had never gotten up, barely able to take my eyes off my mother's battered face. With a resigned sigh, Quentin hit play once more.

"And finally, to the darling daughter that Robert and I gave up so many years ago…" Her voice faltered, tears falling unrestrained now. "I can't begin to tell you what it cost to lose you. I know that your life has been hard, but you have survived – that means more than I can possibly explain here. And now, I hope that you will return to Merlyn Manor; to your rightful home. If you do, you will be sole heir to your father and my estate. I know you will do amazing things with the Manor and its land, something I was never able to do. The house, the property, all stocks, bonds, and assets…everything goes to you, dear girl." She hesitated, looking earnest and conflicted for a second before she forged on.

"First, however, there is a condition. Your father and I discussed this – the importance of knowing you are…right for Merlyn Manor. And that the manor, in turn, is truly the safe haven I hope it will be for you. Quentin will go over the particulars, but the gist is this: live on Crab's Neck for one year. Work your magic with Merlyn Acres. Survive. Thrive. Do—"

Suddenly, a look of pain crossed her face – this one so deep that she went as white as the hospital walls around her.

"Moira?" I heard Quentin say off-camera. A rapid beeping filled the room, and the camera was pushed aside, but not turned off. I gasped as doctors rushed into the frame with a defibrillator and code cart.

Quentin turned off the monitor. Nausea ripped through me. I stood blindly, ignoring my tears, and focused on the exit.

"I need to—excuse me," I said, and bolted for the door.

It wasn't the most graceful exit, but I figured they would prefer that to a puddle of vomit on their antique floorboards.

Once outside, I dove for the nearest oak tree and went to my knees. The cold, clean air washed over me.

_Come find me, Uncle Reggie,_ little Lucy beckoned. I ignored her and remained on hands and knees in the snow as I retched up what little I'd eaten for the day. Footsteps crunched in the snow behind me. Lucy again, I wondered? The kid was relentless.

Whoever was back there, they didn't say anything. I glanced over my shoulder and groaned.

"Why are you here?" I asked Oliver.

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, because that was the state I was in. Oliver – who almost choked Cousin Malcolm to death in front of the whole family not ten minutes before – actually looked uncertain now.

"Here as in…with the family?" he asked.

"No," I said impatiently. I got to my feet and leaned against the old oak tree for moral support. "Here." I gestured between the two of us with a wave of my hand. "Outside. With me. Watching me toss my stale airline peanuts all over the forest floor, while you look like…" I waved again, and sighed. Another flicker of a smile touched Oliver's lips; again, he seemed more surprised than I was at that. His eyebrows went up.

"Like…?" he prompted.

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, right. I'm not going there – you know exactly how you look."

That flash of laughter returned to his eyes, then vanished and he was Mr. Stalwart once more. "Quentin asked that I check on you. Are you all right?"

I leaned my head back against the tree and closed my eyes. The bark was rough against my hair, grounding me in a way nothing else had to that point. "I don't know," I confessed. "I just watched the mother I didn't even know I had die literally in front of my eyes, on an island in the middle of nowhere with a family that clearly hates my guts." I shivered suddenly. "And it's really cold out here."

I opened my eyes to find him taking his jacket off, which was not what I had in mind when I said it was cold. He pushed the coat – a well-made canvas jacket lined with fleece – toward me. "That's not what I meant," I said. "You don't need to give me your clothes. We can just go back inside." The thought made my eye twitch. Not a great sign.

"Take the jacket," he said. "We should give them some time in there; Quentin asked me to show you something anyway."

He pushed the coat into my arms again. I tried backing away, but since I already had my back against a tree that hadn't moved in over a century, I made little progress. I cringed backward regardless, anticipating another brain-melting vision when we made contact.

His hand brushed against my arm. My breath caught in my chest, and I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught of images and emotions.

They never came.

He closed his hand around my arm, more gently than I would have thought possible when that same hand was wrapped around Malcolm's throat.

"Hey," he said quietly. "Are you all right?"

I blinked at him stupidly. "You already asked that," I pointed out. I took the jacket from him since he clearly wasn't leaving me a choice in the matter, and stepped away from both Oliver and the tree.

"Right," he said. "But you—"

"I don't like to be touched," I said. "That's all."

"Okay." He was still watching me, far more intently than I was comfortable being watched. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again…" He hesitated, smile flickering to his lips for an instant before it vanished again. "…as long as you put on the coat."

"Fine," I grumbled, and put on the damn coat.

It was blissfully warm, still heated from Oliver's body. That thought made an entirely different kind of warmth run through me, and I closed my eyes against a flush climbing my cheeks.

"Felicity?" Oliver said a second later.

My eyes popped open. "Sorry. I'm here. I just…never mind. You said Quentin wanted you to show me something."

"Follow me."

He struck out on the path without another word or so much as a backward glance. Warmer now and curious despite myself, I hurried after him.


	3. Chapter 3

_As promised: Day 3 means chapter 3. I know this is kind of a slow build and a very different universe, so I appreciate those taking the time to read. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Once Oliver and I were moving, it didn't take long for me to get lost in the world around us again. The snow was deep out here, close to a foot and completely untouched by man or beast – well, untouched until Oliver, who did a good job blazing the trail for me. Resident birds tracked our progress from nearby branches, while I kept a running tally of the cardinals, blue jays, and titmice I spotted; I lost count of the chickadees early on. The lonely cry of seagulls sounded overhead, and I thought I could smell imminent snow in the air. I let all of it consume me, until the pain and fear I'd been feeling at the house were almost forgotten.

We'd been walking nearly half an hour before it dawned on me that I didn't really know Oliver enough to wander deep into the woods alone with him. I stopped on the trail and called after him.

No response.

I tried again.

When he just kept going, I used the voice I try not to carry into the woods with me, so I don't spook unsuspecting wildlife.

"Hey!" I bellowed.

Finally, he turned. "It's not much farther," he said. His cheeks were flushed with the cold, but if that cold penetrated the sweater he wore sans jacket, he gave no sign. The look on his face told me he'd heard me call after him the first two times, and had been ignoring me. Totally not cool.

"Where are we going? Are we even on Merlyn property anymore?"

"We are," he confirmed. "Now, come on. Quentin will expect us back there eventually."

"Wait," I insisted.

"If you're tired—"

"I'm not tired," I said immediately, because it was true. It was a vigorous walk, sure, but not more than my typical stroll during lunch hours back home. "I have questions."

"Why does that not surprise me?" he said dryly.

"How many acres did my parents own out here?" I persisted.

"Three hundred."

My mouth fell open until I realized I'd gone slack-jawed and closed it again. "What? The island is only two miles."

"There are three hundred and fifty acres in a mile—"

"I know how many acres are in a mile," I snapped. "Three hundred acres is almost half this island."

"It is. Can we go?"

"No. So… The parents I never met just died, and left me with an ancient estate and half an island in Maine," I said. I was aware that I sounded a little bit slow at this point, but I didn't care. Twenty-four hours ago, I was living in a rented studio apartment in Portland with enough student loan debt to keep me in that apartment for another decade. And now…

"There are some stipulations," Oliver said. "But I believe that's the plan."

"It must be worth a fortune."

"The Merlyns have never wanted for much."

And I was a Merlyn.

"Come on," he said, and turned before I could ask anything else. "It's just up ahead."

"But _what_ is up ahead?" I called after him.

Predictably, he just kept moving. I followed.

It was almost five o'clock by now, the sun beginning its descent. I heard wild turkeys in the distance, though I saw no sign of them. I was seconds from calling after Oliver again when the path suddenly opened onto an expansive meadow – or what I assumed would be a meadow, once all the snow was melted. A large building stood at the far end, all stone and steel, glass panes reflecting the sunset back at me.

"What is this?" I asked.

He thought about the question for a second. "Heaven, if you like plants – or at least it was at one time. It's a little rundown now. Quentin thought you might still be interested, though."

Quentin was right.

Without warning, Oliver closed the distance between us with a single stride. I took a step back, startled – even more so when he plunged his hand into my coat pocket.

"What-?" I almost squeaked, trying to get away. He held me fast, eyes on mine, a near-smirk on his lips now.

"I need the keys," he said. "You're wearing my coat."

"Oh." I pulled away from him, felt around in his enormous pockets until I found the keys myself, and handed them to him. "You could have asked."

He shrugged. "Where's the fun in that?"

He turned while I was still trying to get my head around that, stymied that much more by the fact that Oliver had touched me twice now without triggering a single episode. Oblivious to my inner turmoil, he fitted the key to the lock in a massive oak door.

"Ready?" he asked, glancing back at me.

"I doubt it," I said honestly. "But go ahead."

He pushed the door open, walked in, and stepped aside. I followed him…and gasped out loud.

The space was incredible. Overgrown and gone completely off the rails, true, but that just made it that much more appealing. There were climbing vines and half-grown trees, everything covered with moss and lichen and the shadows of age. I walked along a crumbling stone path that led deeper into the building, but stopped when I found myself at a pond that seemed to sit at the center of everything. The water was scummy and dark, but I caught a flash of color somewhere deep.

"There are still fish?" I asked. _The fish talk to me, Mommy,_ Winnie said in my head. Fourth of the six. Four years old; she and her mother were inseparable, with mom Rachel featuring as much in my visions as Winnie did.

"Quentin and Willa take turns looking after them," Oliver said, grounding me in the present once more. "They don't spend a lot of time in here, but they do what they can. Now that you're here, though, maybe you could breathe some new life into this place."

I stared at him. This couldn't possibly be real – and even if it were real, it absolutely, positively couldn't be mine. "You're telling me this… This belongs to the Merlyns?"

"There wouldn't be much point in bringing you here if it didn't, would there? Yes. The greenhouse would be part of your inheritance, along with Merlyn Manor and all three hundred acres of Crab's Neck." He looked around, eyeing the dirty glass panes and the toppled plant pots, the ivy that seemed to have grown into every nook and cranny. "But of course, you've already made it clear that you're not interested."

"I never said I wasn't interested," I protested. "I just said it was a lot. Which it is."

"It is," he agreed, compassion in blue eyes that suddenly held mine.

I looked away first, then left him behind to walk along half-destroyed paths, avoiding glass from a few shattered panes I hadn't noticed at first glance. They sparkled like diamonds in the dim light, and I breathed in deep the scent of soil and growing things. The place was huge – easily five thousand square feet and twenty feet high, more private botanical garden than personal greenhouse.

Oliver caught up and walked alongside me, but paused when his cell phone rang from the jacket pocket I was still wearing. I pulled the phone out, stepping aside when Oliver tried to grab it from me.

"Who's Damian Dahrk?" I asked, glancing at the display.

"No one," he said, and did a graceful kind of twist-and-dive thing that had the phone back in his hand and me stymied seconds later. "I need to take this."

I almost asked why, if Mr. Dahrk truly was no one. I didn't, though, instead waving him away with a mumbled, "Of course."

I heard him leave the building, shutting the door behind him as he answered with a terse "What is it?" Jeez. Remind me to never call the guy.

Alone in the greenhouse for the first time, I refocused on my surroundings. There were echoes of my visions wherever I looked, and a feeling sunk deep that this was mine, somehow… That I belonged here. I remembered sun-soaked spring afternoons here, seated by the pond watching for hours while the koi flashed iridescent bodies just beneath the surface of the water. I remembered running along the paved paths while my mother chased me. I remembered laughter, and comfort.

All of which would have been great, if not for the fact that I – Felicity Smoak – had never actually been here before.

I continued walking, shifting focus to the actual, existing contents of the greenhouse as it stood now. It looked like the place had been designed to celebrate the fauna of the region, rather than bringing in nonnative cultivars that would never thrive outside these walls. In other words, the Merlyns had created a microcosm of Crab's Neck Island, rather than planting some weird homage to Jamaica or something here. I was grateful, and it was surprisingly easy to imagine myself restoring this place – making it mine, in the present.

I found myself back at the koi pond, and crouched low to watch the fish. In the distance, I heard the door open again, though Oliver didn't say anything. I should have called to him, let him know where I was, but I didn't want to interrupt if he was still on his call. The place was big, but not so much so that he wouldn't be able to find me if he needed to.

I stayed where I was, watching the fish move lazy in the murky depths, until I heard footsteps behind me.

_My friends call me Rosie,_ Rose said in a voice that echoed in my head.

_Come find me, Uncle Reggie._ I looked up to see Lucy, the little blond girl I'd spotted on the porch when Reggie and I first arrived here. Suddenly, I saw the greenhouse as it had been in its glory days: everything in its place, with blooms in all directions. Lucy flashed a grin at me, and darted back into the greenery.

_What do your friends call you?_ Rosie said. In my mind's eye, I saw the man from all my visions – the one I'd been seeing for most of my life. Dark hair. Strong features. He smiled at Rose. At me.

I pulled myself out of the visions, aware distantly that the footsteps had come closer. A hand brushed my shoulder.

Electricity rushed through me, and with it a thousand memories. Visions, I corrected myself, remembering the words of a dozen psychiatrists over the years. Visions, not memories. Rosie, dressed all in black, her eyes sparking with life. Lucy, racing toward something – or away, maybe. It was hard to tell which, until suddenly I felt her fear so palpably that I was afraid my own heart would stop with it.

I whirled, desperate to escape the barrage of images.

"I'm sorry," I said, expecting to find Oliver there.

It wasn't Oliver, though.

Instead, a tall, dark-haired man stood there. His eyes were deep brown, dark enough to get lost in. I should know.

I'd been getting lost in them for most of my life.

I took a step back, my heart hammering. "Ray?"

If it felt like I was seeing a ghost come to life, the dark-haired man looked just as unnerved. He stared at me with those depthless eyes, frozen for what felt like ages.

"I was looking for Oliver," he said. He sounded no less shocked than he looked. "I saw tracks in the snow, and thought he might have come."

"He did – he's just on a phone call. He's the one who brought me here."

"Ah," he said. This time, he managed a smile. "I'm sorry, you took me by surprise. Are you a friend of Oliver's?"

"No," I said, then realized that sounded more abrupt than I'd meant it to. "I mean – I'm not _not_ a friend of Oliver's. I'm just not here because I'm a friend of Oliver's. Or, he's not here because he's a friend of mine. We're not – we just met."

He laughed a little, relaxing visibly. "Okay. Well, that clears that up. You said my name when you first saw me, which puts me at a disadvantage since you seem to know who I am but I…"

"Felicity," I said. "I'm Felicity Smoak. And you… So, your name is Ray?" Like in all the visions. _I told you, Ray,_ Rose said, in her singsong voice.

"Ray Palmer." He extended his hand, which I didn't take. I was already turned inside out; the last thing I needed were more visions added to that.

"Nice to meet you," I said. I couldn't stop staring into his eyes. He dropped his hand, looking nonplussed.

"Smoak," he said, echoing the name I'd given. "Are you living on the island? I don't think I know any Smoaks out here."

"I'm not from around here," I said. "Or – I mean, I guess I was originally from around here. But I'm not now. And haven't been, for most of my life."

I was definitely staring at him, but it didn't seem awkward since he openly returned my stare. He seemed to be trying to find a way to ask me something, but before he could get the words out Oliver appeared behind him on the path.

"I thought I heard you," Oliver said. They might be friends, but he still didn't sound over the moon at finding Ray here with me. "I see you two met."

"Yes," Ray said. He spoke to Oliver, but didn't take his eyes from me. "Felicity was just telling me that she's not from around here."

"No," Oliver agreed. "She's new to the island, here for the reading of the will." He paused. "She was Moira and Robert's daughter."

A storm passed in Ray's eyes, a mix of darkness and light that was hard to read or even fathom, before it vanished. He stayed focused on me, his familiar lips easing into a regretful frown.

"I'm sorry for your loss. They were good people."

"Thank you, but it's not really my loss," I said. "I didn't know them."

"No?"

"They put Felicity up for adoption when she was a baby," Oliver said. Which was more information than I'd been prepared to share with a stranger, even one I'd been making time with inside my head for years now. "The family just found out about her."

"That must have been quite a shock." A genuine smile touched Ray's lips, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "I'm sure they're all thrilled about that."

Oliver shocked me by actually laughing – or chuckling, at least. "You could say that. We have it under control, though."

"You sure?" Ray asked. "If you need a hand with anything…"

"With the family?" Oliver said doubtfully. "I'm pretty sure your presence wouldn't help."

Through the whole conversation, Ray barely took his eyes off me. I did him one better by openly gaping at him, until finally Oliver cleared his throat.

"We should get back to the house. I'm sure Quentin is wondering where we are by now."

"Right," I agreed.

"Can I talk to you for a second?" Ray asked Oliver, breaking eye contact with me with what seemed like real effort.

Oliver frowned, but he nodded regardless. "Felicity, would you meet me at the entrance? I'll just be a couple of minutes."

I wanted to argue, assure them both that whatever they had to say, they were safe saying it in front of me; I had a feeling Ray might even go along with that. Oliver didn't come across as the most agreeable man in the world, though. Reluctantly, I nodded.

"It's that way?" I asked, pointing to a path at my right.

"That's right. Just keep following that path, it will take you straight to the door."

"Okay," I agreed, then hesitated again. "So…now?"

Oliver's lip twitched, fighting another smile that definitely seemed to be at my expense. "Please."

"Fine," I grumbled. "But don't take too long."

"Thank you."

With no other option that I could see, all too aware of both men watching my retreat, I started down the path. When I was just a few yards away, barely out of sight, Ray spoke.

"Why didn't you tell me she was coming?" he demanded. I stopped walking, straining to hear them.

"Ssh," Oliver hushed him. "Wait."

"She's already gone," Ray assured him. "How old is she? Does she have—"

_"Wait,"_ Oliver repeated, growling the word this time. Both men fell silent. Several seconds passed, then a minute. Ray started to speak again, but Oliver hushed him immediately.

"Did you get lost?" Oliver asked seconds later, coming up behind me on the path so unexpectedly that I jumped. I may or may not have screamed, but it was a small scream – and it was totally his fault.

"God, give me a heart attack, why don't you? What are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same question," Oliver said. He was alone, Ray nowhere in sight.

"I was waiting for you. I wasn't sure I could find my way back—"

"Spare me," Oliver said dryly. "You don't strike me as the damsel-in-distress type – if you wanted to find your way out, you're perfectly capable."

I frowned rather than being placated, which I was sure was what he'd intended. "Well, yes – you're right about that. I can definitely take care of myself, and I don't appreciate being shuttled off like some inconvenience while the menfolk want to talk amongst themselves – especially if what they're talking about is me."

He arched an eyebrow. "Someone has a high opinion of themselves."

"Spare me – I heard you."

He shrugged. "I don't know what you heard, but it's nothing for you to worry about. You're a pretty girl who's new to the island; that tends to get Ray's attention. I don't think there's anything suspicious in that." He took my elbow, nodding back to the path.

I refused to dwell on the whole 'pretty girl' comment and followed him in silence, focused instead on my breathing and the clear, clean air around me. Within two minutes, we were back at the entrance. I took one last deep breath at the door, and held it in as though preparing for a deep dive.

_Catch me, Uncle Reggie,_ Lucy called. I looked toward the sound – toward the little girl with the sparkling green eyes. A much younger Reggie appeared, stalking out from behind the plants, barely more than a boy himself. He caught Lucy from behind and she shrieked with laughter. I looked more closely as he tickled the girl, both laughing now.

I stopped.

She wore a red T-shirt a size too big for her small frame. My gaze shifted to her throat.

There was a strawberry-colored birthmark in the shape of a butterfly, identical to my own. The same mark I'd seen on the painting of Rose. How had I never made this connection before?

"Felicity," Oliver called to me. I shook my head, clearing it of the visions. The younger, gentler Reggie vanished with the little girl.

"Sorry – right," I said resolutely. "I'm here."

I followed him out into the cold, watching regretfully as he shut and locked the greenhouse door once more.

"So, who was that back there, anyway? He's a friend of yours?" I asked.

It seemed for an instant that he might not answer me. He weighed the decision for a few seconds longer than it should have taken for what I'd thought of as a pretty simple question, then answered on a small sigh. "Ray Palmer."

"And he lives on the island?"

"He does."

"The Merlyns don't like him, though." It was a statement, not a question. If Oliver was surprised by it, he didn't show it.

"Not much, no."

"But you like him."

He grimaced. "You ask a lot of questions."

"An inquisitive mind is a good thing, Oliver," I told him. "Where did you and Ray meet?"

He closed his eyes, like I was causing him physical pain. Frankly, it seemed a little melodramatic. "We met here. There's a grand total of eighty people who live here year-round – we were bound to meet eventually."

"But Moira and Robert didn't like him?"

"It's a long story," he said, after another second or two of pained silence. "One I don't really feel like taking the time for right now. Now, let's go. Quentin will be waiting for us, and I don't want Reggie getting the wrong idea and sending the cavalry after you."

"The wrong idea how?" I asked. He just looked at me. "You mean, because everyone seems to think you and my mother were knockin' boots?"

That earned a smile – I felt a strange flush of pride, since it seemed Oliver smiled so rarely for anyone. "Excuse me?"

"Were you?" I asked, rather than answering him.

"Was I what?" he asked with another long-suffering sigh.

"Were you and my mother sleeping together? It's fine if you were," I added hurriedly. "I didn't know her or my father – I'm not invested in whether or not their marriage was a happy one, and you're kind of…well, whatever. I could understand, if she did…um…"

"Knock boots with me?" he asked, the smile replaced with a smirk. That vanished an instant later, so fast I was left a bit dizzy, darkness in its place. "Your mother was my friend, as was your father. I wouldn't have betrayed that friendship for anything, even if sex was a possibility. Which it wasn't," he added. "Your parents were devoted to each other – there was no other man for Moira."

My tears caught me off guard, flooding my eyes before I could rein them back. Oliver frowned. "I'm sorry," I said quickly, rubbing at my eyes with the back of my sleeve. Which was, of course, Oliver's sleeve. "I'm fine. This is all a little… Everything is a little more than I planned on." I cleared my throat. "I'm fine."

"I know," Oliver said. His eyes held mine for a second, a connection there that I hadn't planned for before he looked away. There was a distance between us when our eyes met again, as though he'd put up a wall in the space of a split second. "We're late," he said, his tone cooler than it had been. "No more questions. Let's go."

He went ahead without me this time, and I hurried to catch up. My thoughts remained on everything swirling around me before they focused on a single figure: Ray Palmer. The man who had been living inside my head for years.

How could anyone honestly expect me not to question any of this?

* * *

_So... We have Oliver, Felicity, and Ray. The island is based on Monhegan Island, Maine, where I'm from, and where I spent a couple of summers when I was younger. I know there are lots of questions at this point, but I would love to hear whether or not you're enjoying the story so far. Is the build between Oliver and Felicity too slow? Comments may even inspire me to do a double-chapter day coming up! Either way, as always, thanks for reading! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Things start to pick up from here, so thanks to any who have been reading and stuck with it so far. This is a shorter bridge chapter, so I decided to put up two chapters today. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Quentin and Willa were alone in the dining room when Oliver and I returned. The house felt unnaturally still, and I looked at Quentin in question.

"The rest of the family had to get going," he explained. "You'll see them here again, I'm sure, if you decide to stay. Thea's in boarding school in Boston and Tommy and Malcolm are usually working at Merlyn Enterprises, but Reggie spends a fair amount of time here. I'll let them know what you've decided, once you figure it out."

"Great," I said. "Thank you."

"Of course. Unfortunately, you left before we were able to go over some of the…details." He paused, then changed his mind about his phrasing. "Conditions might be a better word – that you should know before you decide whether or not to stay for the year here."

"I should go," Willa said briskly. "You won't need me here for this."

"Me too," Oliver said. He looked relieved for the out.

"Actually," Quentin said, "I'd like you both to stay, if you don't mind. You both have parts to play, if Felicity decides to stay on the island. Please." He motioned toward the table. "Everyone – sit."

I sat. With more space at the table now, Oliver and Willa chose chairs a few spaces down from me. I felt small and alone, childlike, as I took my place and waited for Quentin to continue.

"Moira explained on the video that she would like you to stay here for a period of one year before making the final determination of whether you'd like to keep or sell the house," Quentin began.

"Yep," I said with a nod. "I got that part."

"Right," Quentin said. He hesitated. "Your parents had actually been thinking about this before the accident. Their intention had been to contact you and offer this same package, but obviously that never happened."

"Live in the house for a year and it's mine," I clarified, unnerved at the revelation. "That would have been a weird call. No weirder than when you called me, I guess. Maybe a little bit weirder – them waiting until I was an adult and didn't actually need anything from them before they came out of nowhere and—"

"Felicity," Quentin said. I pulled up short, and blew out a quick breath. Right. _Felicity, stop talking._

"Sorry. I babble when I'm freaked out. I know I've done a lot of babbling today."

"It's fine," he assured me. His eyes were still kind, with very little of the impatience I might have expected in the situation. "Should I keep going?"

"Please."

"You're to stay in the house for a year, and after that time it's yours to do whatever you want. If when the year is up you decide you don't want Merlyn Manor, you can sell it to the others in the family at fair market value, or if they prefer not to buy, I can help you work with a real estate agent."

"What if I want to sell before that?" I asked.

"That's not an option," Quentin said. "If you choose not to stay, you forfeit this element of your inheritance – though you'll still get everything apart from Merlyn Manor, which includes a sizable trust fund, stocks, bonds, et cetera."

"What happens to the house then?"

"It will go to Reggie."

I nodded. That wasn't so bad. Reggie loved the house, I was sure, and despite the fact that he seemed a little tightly wound now, the visions I had of him when he was younger were all good. He seemed like a nice enough man, who would take care of this place.

"So, I could start here and then, if it didn't work out I could just talk to Reggie and he gets Merlyn Manor in my place."

"That's correct," Quentin confirmed. "Though, as I mentioned, there are some caveats to you staying in the house for the prescribed year."

"Those caveats being?" I prompted, when he didn't say more. My mind leapt to a thousand bizarre scenarios generated from too many hours of reality TV, but I was guessing I wouldn't have to eat rat testicles or dig a tunnel with a serving spoon before the house was mine.

"The length of time – one year – is firm. And both Moira and Robert felt it important that you actually remain here for the duration of that time."

I nodded, dismissing the additional information until the words sank in. "Wait – like, never leave?" Okay, maybe those rat testicles weren't off the table after all.

Quentin laughed. "Of course not. You're permitted to come and go as you please." He coughed, then looked down at his papers. "So long as you return to the house within twelve hours."

My eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"You'll have two respites over the course of the year, which you can take at your convenience. Neither of which should last more than seventy-two hours."

Well, that was clearly nuts. Quentin obviously wasn't done, however, so I decided I might as well fight him on everything once it was all spelled out; otherwise, we might never get through this conversation.

"What else?" I asked.

He looked relieved that I wasn't arguing. "Your parents were naturally concerned about your health. Therefore, Dr. McLaren will be attending to you with a weekly exam to ensure that you are suffering no…ill effects from the house."

"Why would I suffer ill effects from the house?" I asked suspiciously. "You mean, like lead poisoning?"

"I phrased that poorly," Quentin said quickly. "I just mean that it's important to all of us that you remain healthy over the course of the year."

"Fine," I said. "But a weekly exam seems excessive, don't you think? I'm healthy – there's no reason for me to bother Dr. McLaren with a checkup every week."

"It's no bother," Willa said. "They're right – you should have someone looking out for you while you're here."

"Fine, so have a neighbor check on me once a week or something. I don't need a doctor probing me."

"I'm afraid this is nonnegotiable," Quentin said.

"I promise to keep the probing to a minimum," Willa said, with a genial smile.

"Okay," I said shortly. "Don't leave for a year. Get a weekly, non-prob-y physical. What else? Let me guess: no drugs, no drinking, no late nights, no sex with strange men…"

Oliver stifled a laugh. Quentin coughed, and stared fixedly at his paperwork.

"Actually…" he began.

If I thought my eyebrows shot up before, this time it was amazing they didn't shoot clear off my head. "Seriously?"

"Drinking is fine," he said, then amended, "in moderation. You're welcome to set your own schedule with respect to sleeping."

"And the…other?" I asked, aware that my cheeks must be at least as red as poor Quentin's.

"It was important to your parents that you not be distracted by any romantic entanglements over the course of the year."

"Romantic entanglements?" I repeated.

"Of any kind," Quentin said firmly. He looked at me, and I was grateful for the eye contact despite the awkwardness. "No dates. No…liaisons. I believe you were single in Portland?"

I nodded, and noted somewhere in the back of my head that Oliver suddenly appeared a lot more interested in the conversation.

"Yes," I said. God, why couldn't the earth open up and swallow you when you needed it most? "I was single."

Because I'm always single. It wasn't like the celibacy rule would be a problem for me, if I were being honest. With the visions that were triggered whenever someone touched me, dating had never exactly been a priority.

Still, it was the principle of the thing.

"Moira also requested that someone serve as security for you and the house while you are here."

I closed my eyes, a headache beginning to edge its way into my temples. "Let me guess: that would be why Oliver is here."

"If Oliver's amenable to the terms," Quentin said.

"Of course," Oliver said.

"Is there anything else?" I asked, cooler now. I forced my eyes back open.

Quentin shook his head. He looked miserable. "No. That's everything. Take as much time as you need to think things over."

I nodded again, but otherwise didn't move. I had a job waiting for me back in Portland. Friends. A life – a good life, as a matter of fact.

I thought of the grounds at Merlyn Manor once more. There was a budget – a big one, I had no doubt – for whatever I wanted to do. I would have complete control of three hundred acres, much of it already wild. Plus, there was the greenhouse. So I couldn't leave for a year. Honestly, where did I think I would go?

And at the end of the year, if I didn't like it, I could give the place to Reggie and still have enough money from my trust fund to do whatever I wanted.

"I'll do it," I said.

Both Quentin and Willa couldn't have looked more shocked if I'd just told them I was leaving today to start colonizing Mars. Oliver alone looked unsurprised.

"Felicity—" Willa began, an unexpected warning implicit in the way she said my name.

"It's her decision," Oliver said to her, his tone sharp. The exchange caught me off guard, a connection between them that I hadn't seen before.

"It's fine," I said. "I can do this. Just give me whatever papers you need me to sign, Quentin. I'll need a few days to tell people what's happening and get my stuff together back in Oregon. I'm assuming that's all right?"

Wordlessly, Quentin nodded.

And, like that, it was decided.


	5. Chapter 5

Wrapping up your entire life for a year – possibly longer – in a week isn't as easy as it sounds. Regardless, I was at the dock on the first day of spring with an overloaded backpack at my feet. Sara, the efficient blond woman who'd driven us across the harbor last time, was waiting for me when I arrived.

"Got it all right?" she asked, nodding to my backpack.

"I do. Thanks."

"Is that all you have? There's room – Dad said I should make space."

"Dad?" I asked, uncertain. Surely Reggie would have mentioned if Sara was another Merlyn.

"I'm Sara Lance – Quentin is my father."

"Oh! I didn't realize. You two don't look that much alike, though resemblance doesn't really mean anything. I love your father, though. I mean – platonic love, of course. So far, he's the only person who's not terrifying out here."

She laughed. "He has his moments, trust me – you should have been a teenage girl under his roof." She hesitated. "So…luggage?"

"Right! Sorry, I got distracted – which I do. No, the backpack is everything. I don't have that much."

"Guess not," she agreed. "My sister's a couple of years older than you, and that backpack wouldn't get her through an afternoon. I was always more the packing light kind, myself."

"I guess we have that in common, then."

With some effort, I hefted my pack over the railing and clambered over as the floor rocked beneath my feet. Sara untied the boat and gunned the engine. I tried to start a conversation a couple of times while we were out, hoping I might get more information on the Merlyns and the island, but Sara stared resolutely at the horizon for the entire journey. I got the sense she was actively avoiding talking to me, which I tried not to take personally.

For the past several days, the few hours I'd managed to sleep had been riddled with dreams of this place and the six girls who had walked with me my entire life, all of them speaking through me. Rose and Lucy and Mara, Winnie and Lily and Ella… I watched key moments of each of their lives play out, but it never exactly felt like I was watching those moments. I was living them, alongside each of the girls.

And in nearly every dream, Ray was there. Gazing at me with those deep brown eyes – sometimes soulful, but more often playful. Seductive, even. I felt his touch in the night. Hell, I felt it all the time. Walking down the street, something would trigger a vision, and that same surge of electricity I'd felt when we met in the greenhouse would rush through me again.

I actually considered canceling the whole thing. Based on the number of visions and the lack of sleep and everything else racing through my head, it seemed like Merlyn Manor probably wasn't the best thing for me. But if I was going crazy, I figured I might as well do it on a gorgeous, haunted estate on the Maine coast as anywhere else.

I told myself a thousand times that my decision had nothing to do with Ray Palmer. This had nothing to do with him.

But my gaze was still drawn to the island peak as soon as it was in sight. To the glass-paned house on the hill, and the mysterious man who lived there.

Quentin and Oliver met me at the dock, and Sara launched my backpack over the side of her boat like it weighed nothing.

"I've got one more run today. Do you know if Willa's still coming with?" Sara asked, the question directed to Quentin.

"I'm not sure – she's got some things going on at the manor, but she should be ready in about half an hour, sweetheart. You think you can keep out of trouble till then?"

"I can probably manage that. I wanted to get _The Moira_ cleaned up, anyway – I've been running her pretty hard lately. See you later?"

"I'll let you know," he said. The easy way they had between them was exactly what I'd always wanted with my own father, and a lump formed in my throat watching them. Sara gave me a warm smile before she got back on the boat and headed toward the cabin.

"Take it easy out there okay, Felicity?" she called back to me. "I'm not far from you – Dad can get in touch if you need anything. I do boat runs to the mainland a few times a week for supplies."

"Thank you, I may take you up on that." I'd been on research trips to remote places in college – a couple of isolated islands in the South Pacific for a month at a time, and a stint in Guatemala that still made me nostalgic during summer rainstorms – so I wasn't new to living out of a backpack. Still, a year in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean was going to take some getting used to.

Once Sara was out of sight, I refocused on the two men waiting alongside me. Quentin wore jeans and an oversized black parka, while Oliver wore Carhartts and the same canvas jacket he'd let me borrow when I was on the island the last time. He nodded at me but didn't actually speak, which seemed like a very Oliver way to say hello.

"Well, I made it," I said. "Sara wasn't much of a conversationalist, but I think I'll get used to that around here." I looked at Oliver significantly. He gave me the same flicker of a smile I remembered from my last visit, and reached for my backpack. I snatched it off the ground before he could reach it, and tossed it over my shoulder. Well – tossed may be an overstatement. It was heavy, filled with more textbooks than clothes, and I stumbled under the weight when it landed with a thunk on my shoulder.

Instantly, Oliver was at my side, his hand at my elbow.

"I've got it," I said, stepping away from him.

"I'm sure you do," he said, "but it's a long trip back to the house, and I think Quentin wanted to talk to you about some things. I could walk on ahead…"

"Fine. If you want to be my pack mule, go for it." I frowned. "And I'm sorry if that sounded bitchy – I'm just tired, and I don't really know how to handle having a…you, following me everywhere." I shrugged the backpack off my shoulder and handed it to him. His eyebrows went up when he took the bag's full weight.

"You know, we have rocks out on the island," he said dryly. "There was no reason to pack yours for the flight."

"Very funny. They're books – I'm looking forward to working on the grounds, and I didn't want to wait until everything got shipped over. A Kindle would have been easier – and a lot kinder on my back – well, your back, I guess. But unfortunately, there aren't digital versions of most of my library yet. If it's too heavy—"

Oliver just smirked at me. "I think I can handle it." He looked at Quentin. "Unless you'd like me to wait, I can get this back to the house and meet you there?"

"That's fine," Quentin assured him. "We'll be along shortly. Thank you."

Oliver headed up the path with my pack slung over his shoulder, moving with long, easy strides that I envied. I hadn't realized I was watching his retreating backside quite so intently until Quentin cleared his throat. As retreating backsides went, Oliver's was kind of extraordinary.

I shifted my gaze abruptly, my cheeks heating yet again. "Sorry – what was that?" I asked Quentin. He looked amused, if a little concerned.

"I just asked if your trip was all right," he said.

"It was fine. Kind of long and kind of cramped, like all flights are, but otherwise…"

"You know, you could have upgraded your ticket. Or used the company jet—"

"There's a company jet?" I shook my head before he could answer. "Forget it, I don't even want to know. Do you have any idea what kind of havoc private airplanes have wrought on the environment? Not that the Merlyns care, obviously. But…" I pulled myself up short and turned to look at Quentin once more. "Thank you. But I don't need a company jet – I don't even need to fly first class. I'm here because I want to learn more about my parents, and because there are…questions, things I don't understand, about myself. I'm not here for the money."

"I understand that," Quentin said, looking at me with more kindness than I'd expected. "I didn't mean to imply anything. But there are advantages and disadvantages to carrying the Merlyn name… You might as well take the good if you're going to be stuck with the bad."

I started to ask him what that meant, since it seemed distinctly ominous, but he nodded to the trail ahead of us. "We should get going. We're expecting snow this afternoon – I'm sure you'd like to get inside and get warmed up."

I nodded wordlessly and followed him, grateful to be moving again. The air was cold and crisp, with enough wind to kick up the surf but not so much that it had made me want to die on the boat ride over. I took a second to take things in, noting that the trees were still bare, but a lot of the snow had melted over the past few days.

"So," I asked, once we were well on our way. "Where's Reggie? I kind of thought he'd be here when I got in."

_Catch me, Uncle Reggie,_ Lucy called, and I looked up to see her ahead on the trail. The scene had been playing out more and more in my head recently. I'd almost forgotten the dour man I'd met when I was here last, replaced by the laughing Uncle Reggie in my visions.

"He couldn't be here today," Quentin said. "He'll be back for the weekend to help you get settled, though."

"What about the others? Tommy and Thea? Malcolm?" I paused on the trail when Quentin didn't answer right away. I frowned. "Let me guess – they don't want anything to do with me."

"Thea's not like that," he said. "She's a good kid, just lonely and a little misguided. She was really excited to hear about you, though."

"She did seem nice," I agreed. "And Tommy and Malcolm?"

He grimaced. "Yeah, well… Not everybody in the family's a peach, I'll give you that. If they give you a hard time, just come to me. Don't try to handle them on your own."

Was this what Oliver had meant when he said Quentin wanted to talk to me about something? "You make it sound like they're dangerous," I said. Whole seconds passed without Quentin arguing that point. "Are they? Dangerous, I mean?"

He stopped walking and turned to face me. His face was dark, brow furrowed. "Let's just say, Moira wanted me to keep Oliver around once you got here for a reason, and it wasn't because he looks pretty in a suit. With him around and me keeping an eye out, though, you don't need to worry about a thing. We've got you covered."

We walked on in silence after that while the weight of his words sank in. The grounds looked darker on our trek back this time, though it was only three in the afternoon and there had been full sun on the mainland. Maybe the sun just didn't shine out here. The yard was muddy when we reached the manor, and I paused at an elm tree I kept seeing in my visions. There was a tire swing in the visions, usually with either Lucy or Winnie swinging wildly on it… There was no tire swing now, but a frayed rope hung from an upper branch. Either there had been a swing once upon a time or this had been a hanging tree way back when. Looking around, it was hard to say which was more likely.

"You'll have your choice of bedrooms, of course," Quentin said as we reached the front door. Neither Oliver nor my backpack were anywhere in sight. "I've had all of them cleaned since you were here last, with fresh linens on all the beds."

"You didn't have to do all that. I thought you were the family lawyer, not the butler."

"I'm only a lawyer because I couldn't be a cop anymore," he said. He opened the front door and stepped aside, allowing me to enter first. "And I owe Moira and your grandmother a lot – I'm happy to help the family any way I can."

"Well, I appreciate it," I said. "Any help I can get at this point is good."

My backpack was waiting in the entrance when we got inside, so that was a relief. I heard voices within – Oliver and Willa, both of whom appeared as soon as Quentin closed the door behind us.

"You made good time," I noted to Oliver, who'd been here long enough to take off his jacket and get himself a cup of tea. Though the mug was steaming, he held it in a bare hand as though oblivious to the heat.

He shrugged, which I was fast learning was another typical Oliver reaction. Why waste time with words when body language can be just as ineffective?

"There's tea if you'd like," Willa said, her Scottish brogue welcoming enough to make me smile. "It's a cold day for travel."

"It is," I agreed. "Tea would be good. You don't have to wait on me, though. If I'm going to live here, I should probably learn my way around the place."

"Agreed," Quentin said. "But there will be plenty of time for that. Why don't you let me get the tea, and you and Willa can attend to things."

The way he said 'things,' with a loaded pause just before the word, made me uneasy. "Did you have any 'things' in mind?" I asked, knowing full well exactly what he meant.

"Dr. McLaren is here for the initial exam," Quentin said quietly. "It was part of the agreement," he reminded me.

My least favorite part of the agreement, as a matter of fact. There was no point fighting something I had already agreed to, though – I knew that. I'd spent enough time over the years tilting at windmills to know a losing battle when I saw one.

"Okay, fine. Where?" I asked, a hint of that earlier bitchiness creeping back into my tone.

"The study should work just fine, I expect," Willa said, suddenly briskly professional. "You're all right with it being just the two of us in there? If not, I can get somebody else to stand by."

Since the only other people I knew on the island so far were Quentin, Oliver, and Ray, I shook my head. Now _that _would be awkward. "No," I said. "It's fine. I trust you."

Three words I rarely said to anyone. It made no sense that now, with this woman I barely knew, I believed them implicitly. Her eyes held mine a moment, and a vision scratched at the back of my brain. It never materialized, though.

"Follow me, then," she said.

"We'll just wait in the kitchen," Quentin said, nodding to include Oliver in the statement. "Your tea will be waiting for you."

"Great," I said. I followed Willa.

The study had apparently been cleaned like the rest of the house, and now smelled of soap and aged leather, the faint scent of cigar smoke beneath it all. I stood frozen in the doorway for a second, my hand on the doorsill.

_Just come in – no one will find out,_ a voice whispered. Rose. I watched as a young man crept through the door, his back to me.

_If your father catches us, we're done for,_ the boy said though there was laughter in his voice. He turned to face me, and my chest tightened. Deep brown eyes. Chestnut hair.

Ray, though a couple of years younger than in my other visions.

Rose came into the frame, as though I were watching a movie. She took a cigar from the top drawer of a massive pine desk.

"Felicity," Willa said. She touched my shoulder and I flinched, the vision vanishing before my eyes. The pine desk remained, though – considerably older now, the top cleared of the books and papers I'd seen in the vision.

"I'm sorry," Willa said, withdrawing her hand. "You seemed…not here."

"I was here. I just space out sometimes."

She took a seat at the edge of the desk, nodding me to a plush leather chair. "Space out?" she asked. "I don't know what that means, lass."

"It's hard to explain. It's happened my whole life – kind of like daydreaming, I guess. Except it doesn't always happen during the day."

"All right, then." She hesitated. "And the…no touching. That could be a problem between us. I don't need to do a thorough exam every time, but I'll at least need to check your heart, listen to your lungs. I'll need to touch you."

"I know," I said. My voice was quieter now, my whole body wound up tight.

"You've worked with physicians before, surely," she said. "You've had exams."

"Of course. The State is all about exams – I grew up on them."

"It's not a good memory," she observed.

I thought of being a kid, after my adoptive parents died. Strangers holding me down while voices whispered in my ear and a hundred visions screamed through my head. The medication started not long after that. Years of misdiagnoses and psychotropic med cocktails, until those things were a thousand times worse than any vision I'd ever had.

"No," I said shortly. "It's not a good memory."

"How about we start slow, then," she said.

"That sounds good."

Willa hopped off the desk and came toward me cautiously, like she was approaching some wild animal. "Could you take your jacket off for me?"

I stood and shrugged the thing off, dropping it carelessly over my chair.

"Why don't you hop up on the desk," she said. "That will be less awkward."

I did as she instructed. Willa wasn't necessarily statuesque, but she had a couple of inches on me. She was right: being up on the desk put us on equal ground, or at least eye to eye, for the first time since we'd met. It was already clear that she was an attractive woman, but this close I could truly appreciate the flawless ivory skin, the dusting of freckles and the wide green eyes that gazed back at me. I'd initially thought her to be in her forties, but now I realized she might be older than that. Younger than Quentin, but not by much. She produced a stethoscope from a weathered leather bag, the old-fashioned kind doctors carry in black-and-white movies.

My anxiety grew by leaps and bounds as she warmed the steel between her hands.

"Do I need to take my shirt off?" I asked.

"If you don't mind," she agreed, then hesitated. Her eyes were keen on mine, taking in every inch of me as I unbuttoned the chambray shirt I'd been wearing and lay it on the desk beside me. Now stripped to my simple pink bra, I shivered in the cool air and tried to convince myself I hadn't made a mistake coming here.

"If you would prefer a different physician," she began, when I was about thirty seconds from a full-blown panic attack seated half-naked on my dead father's desk, "I hope you know that's not a problem. It's within your rights to choose whomever you'd like for this, Felicity. There are plenty of physicians on the mainland who could come out here. It's important you understand that you have power in this arrangement. I worry that Quentin and the others sometimes lose sight of that."

"I'm all right," I said, though the dry mouth and constant shivering didn't inspire much confidence in the truth of that statement. I took a deep breath, and steadied myself with some effort.

She smiled and took a step toward me, stethoscope in hand. "Good. Let's get started, shall we? You look like you're about to freeze or perish up there, lass. Deep breath." I took another breath as she stepped behind me and lay the stethoscope against my naked back. "And another." I considered her as I obeyed, finally beginning to relax. She had touched me, brushed against me more than once, and so far it hadn't triggered a single vision.

"Where did you study – to become a doctor, I mean? Your accent…"

"Aye," she said, still behind me. "Scotland. I studied over there, and got my doctorate just over a decade ago."

"And that's where you're from?"

"That's right. Inverness – that's where my people are from, at any rate. I've traveled a bit. Inverness will always be home, though. Have you been?"

"No. I traveled some in college, but I've never been to Europe." I wanted to ask what made her decide to leave Scotland and move here, but forgot the question when she produced a syringe from her bag. A really, really big syringe.

"I don't need any drugs," I said immediately.

Her brow furrowed, and I was caught in her green eyes once more. "No drugs," she promised. "I just want to draw some blood. I'll need a baseline so I can track any changes over the course of the year."

"Oh." I relaxed, though only slightly – needles are not my favorite thing. I watched as she pulled a rubber tube from her magic carpet bag.

"Did you have a specialty?" I asked, as she wrapped the tube around my arm. "In school, I mean?"

"Pediatrics." She uncapped the syringe with her teeth and managed to find a vein on the first try. I barely felt the enormous needle go in.

"Did you know Lucy?" I asked, trying to appear nonchalant. She froze. Went silent for a second.

"Lucy…?"

"A little bond girl – Moira and Robert's daughter, I think. Before me, obviously." And my sister, I added silently. I was still wrapping my head around that.

"Ah," Willa said quietly. "That Lucy. I never met her. She was long before my time."

"Do you know what happened to her?"

"She died." I think she would have left it there, but she sighed when the look on my face made it clear I wanted more than that. "You're a wee bit impossible," she said, though with a reassuring touch of fondness in the words. "Has anyone ever told you that?"

"You have no idea," I said.

She chuckled. "You're not so very unlike your mum, actually. Moira could test a saint's patience if there was something she wanted, or something she felt should be done. Always fighting the good fight – that was your mother."

I blinked back tears at the unexpected revelation. "She must have been heartbroken to lose her daughter. Do you know how it happened?"

"It was a boating accident, I think," she said. "Lucy was out with Reggie. I'm not sure what all went on, you'll have to ask someone in the family. Quentin would know, I'm sure."

"It was just the two of them in the boat – just Lucy and Reggie?" I asked, thinking again of all those visions of the two of them laughing together. _Come find me, Uncle Reggie._

"It was. He was devastated, or so I've heard. I know he seems a bit harsh now, but I believe he loved that little girl."

"How old was she when she died?"

"Ten. Just turned." She looked sad for a moment, as though I'd struck a chord.

"But you didn't know her?" I pressed.

"No," she said quickly, snapping out of her reverie. "But it's always terrible to lose a child – I can only imagine what it must have done to Reggie. To all of them."

"It must have been horrible."

Willa capped the tube of blood she'd just drawn and threw the needle into a sharps container. She looked about to say something more, but was interrupted by a knock at the door that nearly made me jump right off the desk.

"Sara just called," Oliver called from the other side of the door. "She's ready to head back to the mainland. Will you be much longer?"

"We're just about finished," Willa called back calmly. I hurried to put my shirt back on, while Willa repacked her bag with cool efficiency. "We won't always be rushed like this," she assured me, "but I need to run some errands on the mainland. If I don't catch this boat with Sara, I won't get back for at least another week. Do you mind?"

I shook my head. "No. Of course – whatever you need to do. Don't worry about me. As far as I'm concerned, the less time this whole thing takes, the happier I'll be."

She laughed. "I suppose that's true, isn't it? Well, then I won't feel guilty."

She went to the door and opened it once she was sure I was decent. Oliver stood waiting with arms crossed over his broad chest, his jacket gone and another cable knit fisherman's sweater on in its place.

"Quentin will walk you to the boat," he told Willa.

"That won't be necessary. I'm perfectly capable of walking half a mile to the waterfront," she said, which made Oliver grimace.

"Fight with him about it, I'm not getting in the middle again. He's in the kitchen."

She nodded and excused herself once more, scooting past Oliver and back toward the kitchen. I was still on the desk, fastening the last button on my shirt. To my surprise, Oliver stepped into the room rather than following Willa.

"Did everything go all right?" he asked me. "With the exam, I mean?"

I frowned. "I think that's covered under doctor-patient confidentiality, but…well, yes, if you must know. No problems that I'm aware of, anyway."

"Good." He stayed where he was, just inside the threshold. I hopped down from the desk and went for my jacket only to find Oliver suddenly blocking the way.

"That birthmark," he said, nodding to my neck. He reached out and tipped my head to the side to give himself a better angle to view the butterfly-shaped mark on my neck. I backed away, anticipating another vision, but instead of the typical hurricane of images storming my brain, there was nothing. Well… Nothing, except an undeniable charge of electricity that ran through me at Oliver's touch.

"Sorry," he said. He stepped away, hands up. "I know – you don't like to be touched. But that's an interesting mark you have. Distinctive."

He tried to play it cool, but failed by a pretty impressive margin. No doubt about it, Oliver knew the significance of that birthmark. Or, at the very least, he had seen it before.

"I think it runs in my family," I said. "I've seen it in a couple of the portraits in the hall. I thought maybe my mother…"

"She didn't have it," he said.

"Oh." I didn't know why the news disappointed me. What did it matter whether my mother had the same birthmark I did? It didn't make her any less my mother. Then I realized what Oliver had said, and frowned. "Wait – how do you know my mother didn't have it? I thought you said you didn't sleep with her. Again – not that it matters."

He grinned, a sunny look that chased away what otherwise seemed like perpetual clouds. "The birthmark is on your neck, Felicity, not your thigh. I worked with Moira and Robert for five years; in that time, I saw her neck more than once."

"Right," I said, blushing like the idiot I was. "Of course. That makes sense."

He stepped close again, though he was careful not to touch me. He smelled good, a hint of soap and sweat and something else, something distinctive that I couldn't name. Was there a cologne that smelled like that? If there wasn't one yet, someone should totally figure out how to replicate it and get it out on the open market. You would make millions.

I forced myself to focus when I realized that Oliver was watching me, his blue eyes intent on mine.

"She may not have had the birthmark, but you definitely have her smile. And her eyes – blue with the flecks of gray, sometimes almost green on darker days." He held my gaze, the room suddenly about ten degrees warmer than it had been. "You get that from her."

Tears sprang to my eyes yet again, catching me off guard. I'm not usually a crier, but everything seemed to be overloading my system this week. Oliver looked surprised as well. I expected him to look away, since he didn't seem like the kind of guy who did well with big shows of emotion. Instead, he reached out carefully and brushed his thumb along my cheek, wiping a single tear away before it fell.

Our eyes held.

And suddenly, from nowhere, a vision blindsided me:

A dark alley. Oliver, his face dirty and running with sweat. _We need to get her out of here. There's too much blood._

_Don't let me die,_ a small voice said. A voice I knew as well as my own: Rose.

_Please, Oliver. Don't let me die._

I blinked the images away. Oliver studied me intently, brow furrowed. I pulled away from his touch, stumbling in my rush to get back. Oliver caught my arm, eyes still searching my face.

"What just happened?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. I should go," I said quickly. "I need to get my stuff moved in, and Quentin's probably wondering where I am."

"He'll wait. What did you just see?" he persisted.

"I didn't see anything," I said. "Nothing that makes sense – it's just a thing that happens to me. That's always happened to me. Forget it."

I snatched my arm from him and tried to get to the door, but Oliver was blocking my path yet again. Instead, I went to the window that looked out onto the back of the property while I waited for my heart to settle back into a semi-normal rhythm. Oliver was still watching me, I knew; still waiting for an explanation. Instead of offering one, I focused on the world outside. It was mid-afternoon, the sky boiled gray overhead. A grove of spruce trees off to my left caught my attention and I couldn't figure out why at first. After a second or two, I realized that the branches were moving – as though someone had just ducked behind one of the trees.

"Felicity?" Oliver said.

I waved him off. "Is there –" I frowned, focused more intently on the trees. Oliver appeared somewhere behind me, caught in the reflection of the glass.

"Is there what?" he asked.

I started to point, but before I could the movement in the trees suddenly came into focus. A face appeared – or a mask, presumably with a face behind it. I froze. Oliver shouted my name just as the world around me exploded in a hailstorm of falling glass. Something seared my temple and I think I screamed, though I couldn't say for sure because an instant later my breath was gone and I was on the ground with Oliver on top of me.

* * *

_I know, it's a cruel place to leave things. Have no fear, though, I will have the next chapter up tomorrow. If you're enjoying the story, of course, comments are always love. I'm just working my way through season six of the series now, so this little fantasy Oliver/Felicity world I've created is getting me through all the darkness of the show!_


	6. Chapter 6

_And, here we go with the follow-up to yesterday's cliffhanger. Enjoy!_

* * *

"Felicity. Wake up." Oliver's voice was low, his worry unmistakable.

"Is she hurt?" I heard Quentin ask.

"She's bleeding from the head, so I think that's a safe bet. Get Willa back here."

"Did you see who it was?"

"I went out, but they were long gone. Ssh – she's waking up."

I opened my eyes, if only to get Oliver and Quentin to stop fighting about me while I was still at least marginally alive. The two men crouched over me with matching looks of concern.

"Why is it freezing here?" I asked through chattering teeth.

Oliver glanced at Quentin. "Get Willa," he said quietly.

"I don't need Willa," I said. I tried to sit up, but that made my stomach somersault and my head implode so I gave up on that idea and lay back down. "What happened?"

"Someone shot out the window," Oliver said. Then, he looked back at Quentin with a look that I would not have messed with if you paid me. "Get. Willa. Now."

"She's probably already headed to the mainland with Sara," Quentin argued.

"Get her back," Oliver said shortly.

"I really am fine," I insisted, but one look at Oliver must have been enough to convince Quentin he wasn't backing down on this. Frowning, Quentin got to his feet and left us.

I gave sitting another try, more slowly this time. The implosion inside my head was less horrific now and it seemed less likely that I was going to hack all over the study floor. Oliver's hand was gentle on my shoulder, and it blessedly didn't trigger any visions.

"Why did someone shoot out the window?" I asked, as the events immediately preceding my blackout came rushing back in technicolor. "Or, I guess more importantly, why did someone shoot out the window while I was standing there?"

Oliver blew out a breath of relief. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know – I've never been shot before." I lifted a hand to my head; it came away bloody. Throwing up became a very real possibility once more. "Oh, crap. I've been shot."

"The bullet just grazed you," Oliver said soothingly. I was having a hard time being soothed, however, having never had a bullet do anything – graze, shoot, or otherwise maim - me before. "You're going to be fine. Willa will be back in a minute to check you out."

"You're not answering my question: who the hell just tried to shoot me?"

"I don't know," Oliver said. It seemed like the admission cost him something, and I almost felt bad for him…until I remembered that _someone just shot me in the freaking head._

"Quentin said Malcolm isn't happy that I'm here," I said. "As in, not happy enough that you've been hired to…whatever."

I tried to get to my feet, since I was officially freezing and still fairly pukey and not at all interested in staying in that room for any longer than I possibly had to. Oliver helped me, his hand at my elbow. I normally would have refused the assistance, but the fact that he seemed to be one of the few who didn't trigger any visions – or triggered very few, at least – meant I was slightly more amenable to his presence. For a giant, brooding mountain of muscle, he was surprisingly comforting.

I stood on shaking legs and closed my eyes while I waited for the world to stabilize. When I opened them, Oliver stood watching me with clear concern. He held up my glasses. I hadn't even realized I was missing them.

"Not broken, but they may have a couple of scratches." He slid them onto my face before I could do so myself, a semi-permanent frown line fixed in the middle of his forehead. "I'm sorry."

"They'll be fine," I said. "Believe it or not, they've survived worse than being shot at." I reconsidered. "Okay – well, that's not true. But they've survived a lot."

"I'm not sorry about your glasses, Felicity – I'm sorry that this happened at all. I didn't realize that the threat was quite so…imminent."

"Neither did I. If I had, I might have given this whole move-to-an-island-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-to-reconnect-with-the-dead-parents-I-never-knew-I-had thing a little more thought."

He huffed a laugh. "Yeah." He hesitated. "Why don't you come with me into the kitchen. There's a fire going in there, so we can at least get you warmed up while we wait for Willa and Quentin."

He offered his arm, but I figured it was long past time for me to stand on my own. I walked ahead, painfully aware of Oliver's eyes on me as I crossed the study threshold and navigated the long, dark corridor back to the kitchen. I paused at Rose's portrait again, and shivered at her cool gaze. It felt like she was staring straight through me.

_Don't let me die, Oliver,_ I heard her cry. The words sounded in my head, bouncing around until it felt like they were trapped in an echo chamber. Rose had known Oliver. Or Rose had known _an_ Oliver. An Oliver who looked exactly like this one, which was impossible since Rose lived over one hundred years ago. And Oliver – my Oliver, at least – was very much alive now, and didn't look remotely like a centenarian.

What the hell was going on?

Willa and Quentin came rushing back a few minutes later. I was seated by the woodstove in the massive Merlyn kitchen, which was bigger than my entire studio apartment in Portland. Willa and Oliver exchanged a look I couldn't read, though I thought I saw blame there – as if this were somehow Oliver's fault.

"Don't blame him," I said quickly. "If Oliver hadn't been there, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be sitting here right now. There was no way he could have known—"

"It's all right, Felicity," Oliver said. He stood and faced off against Willa, who suddenly seemed much more intimidating than I'd ever imagined she could be. "There was a sniper in the glade out behind the house. I went after them once I was sure Felicity was all right, but they were gone."

"Malcolm…?" she asked. My stomach somersaulted all over again. Oliver shook his head grimly.

"I don't know."

"Wait," I said. "Are you seriously telling me that Malcolm Merlyn doesn't want me here badly enough to shoot me?" No one said anything to that, which I took to mean that, yes, in fact, my cousin was exactly that unhappy about me joining the Merlyn fold. I stood, grateful to feel more solid on my feet now. "And no one thought it might be a good idea to let me know this before I quit my job and moved three thousand miles to live on an island with no police and no hospital and only one brooding bodyguard I barely know standing between me and total disaster?"

"Maybe we should get Reggie out here," Quentin said.

"Why? Does Uncle Reggie want me dead less than cousin Malcolm?" They all exchanged loaded glances, but no one seemed to have an answer. What had I gotten myself into? I took a deep breath that wound up being too shaky to do any good and fought a rising sense of panic.

"Lass, why don't you sit?" Willa said quietly, back to the soothing presence she had been earlier. I was long past that, though.

"I don't want to sit," I said. She reached for my arm but I shook her off, a fresh surge of adrenaline rushing my already-overloaded system. "I want to know what we're going to do, because based on the broken window and my gushing head wound it seems like something should definitely be done. What about the police?"

"Already called," Quentin said. "They'll send them out when they can, but things are stretched pretty thin on the mainland. Frankly, I think what happened out here was meant more as a warning than anything else. They're just trying to scare you."

"Well, they're doing a really good job," I said, pacing the tiled kitchen floor. "And if they're trying to warn me, don't you think it would be more effective if they communicated just what, exactly, they want me to do? Or not do? Because I can't give them what they want if they don't tell me what that is – I'm a lot of things, but mind reader isn't one of them. Maybe we should talk to Malcolm—"

"Felicity," Oliver said. He stepped in my path, blocking me mid-step so suddenly that I nearly crashed into him. His voice was low, even, and he kept his eyes on mine with unwavering attention. "Listen to me. I won't let anything happen to you, all right? Whether it's Malcolm or Reggie or someone else, I'm here. They caught me off guard today, but that won't happen again. I promise."

"But—"

He touched my shoulder, his hand warm and solid. No visions came. No crushing headache. Just Oliver's steel-blue eyes, steady on mine. "Trust me. Please, Felicity."

I felt my heart begin to slow, which was weird because normally being this close to a man as absurdly good looking as Oliver would have me falling all over myself. Apparently, getting shot made me much cooler around men. Good to know.

I took another breath, this one steadier, and closed my eyes against Oliver's gaze. "Fine," I breathed. My eyes popped open again, and I turned to find Willa. "Did you want to look at this?" I asked, indicating my head.

"It's probably not a bad idea, lass," she said, a reassuring fondness in the words. "Come here and sit."

"Can I talk to you?" Quentin asked Oliver.

Oliver looked at me like he was afraid I'd fall apart if he left the room, and I rolled my eyes. "Go. Unless Willa's secretly an assassin out for my blood, I should be fine." A horrible thought struck, and I looked at Willa. "You're not, right?"

She laughed. "No, Felicity. Not in this lifetime, at any rate."

I took her words as the best reassurance I was going to get, and returned to my seat by the fire. Quentin and Oliver left the room, and I closed my eyes and let Willa clean my wounds.

Detective Roland Harriday showed up at the house three hours later. Mid-forties and a little too round to inspire confidence, the policeman walked through the study, took a couple of notes, asked some basic questions, and then told us to give him a call if there were any other problems.

"That's it?" I asked. I stood facing off against the detective in the study, the window now blocked off with plastic and duct tape, Oliver and Quentin in the room with us. "That's all you're going to do?"

The detective gave me a long-suffering smile that was no doubt meant to placate me, the hysterical little woman. "There's not much more we can do, Miss. I've got your statements, but I expect it was just some locals blowing off steam. Things can get a little rowdy around here."

"Since when is getting shot considered someone getting a little rowdy?" I demanded.

The detective looked wearily at Quentin and Oliver, the meaning in his gaze completely transparent. He might as well have said out loud, "Women – am I right?"

I drew myself up to my full five-foot-five and stepped between Harriday and the others. "Excuse me – I'm the one filing the report, so I'd appreciate it if you look at me… Ideally, without acting like I'm your harebrained mother-in-law freaking out about a spider in the corner. Someone shot out my window. They fired a gun at my house, while I was standing in full view. They shot me in the head. I'm sorry, but that doesn't seem like it should be filed under Boys Will Be Boys."

For the first time, Harriday looked like he might take me seriously. I didn't care if it was just to get me off his back, so long as he actually did something. "Sorry, ma'am. I know you're new to this place; we get used to things going a certain way, and maybe don't take them as serious as people from away might. Unfortunately, there's still not a whole lot I can do until you have an idea who's doing this – we just don't have the manpower to send somebody over here from the mainland to investigate something less than a serious threat on your life."

"That's fine, Roland," Quentin said, stepping in. He used to be a police officer, I remembered, and the way he handled himself around the detective made me think he'd probably been good at his job. "We appreciate you coming out here. Oliver and I will keep an eye on things, and I'll give you a call if we find out who took the potshot this afternoon."

Detective Harriday nodded, offered another awkward apology to me, and excused himself. So much for the long arm of the law.

After the shooting and the harrowing afternoon that followed, a fierce headache settled in my temples and I begged off dinner and retreated to my room instead. Thankfully, my first night at Merlyn Manor wasn't nearly as terrifying as I'd expected. I chose a bedroom on the south-facing side of the house, since I knew it would get the best sunlight and I planned to bring in house plants just as soon as possible. Once I'd selected the room, I stood in the doorway for a full ten minutes listening to the house. Or, I guess more accurately, listening to the voices in my head that seemed to belong to the house. They didn't feel like ghosts – they just felt like part of me. Parts that suddenly, after twenty-two years, were beginning to make sense.

Sort of.

It was kind of like I'd spent my life seeing bits and pieces of a puzzle, and now I was getting the whole picture. Or maybe like reading scattershot chapters only to be presented with the whole book. Whatever it was, it was exciting.

The room I chose had wallpaper with pale pink roses in endless vines twined around the room, cedar waxwings nested in sections of thorn wherever I looked. There was a four-poster bed made up with an Amish quilt, also in rose and white, and an antique night stand with aged brass pulls. Like so many things in the house, it looked handmade, rustic in a way that made me wonder if one of my ancestors had made these things.

Oliver insisted on staying at the manor as well, and after the attack that afternoon I hardly fought him on that. He chose a room a couple of doors down from mine, assuring me that if I needed anything all I needed to do was call. I agreed, praying that that wouldn't be necessary.

There was no internet in the house, which I hoped could be remedied though I wasn't sure how. At least I had cell service. When I'd first heard of Crab's Neck, I wasn't even sure I'd get that.

I put the few clothes I had in an antique dresser, oak like the night stand, and then settled on the bed. When I first planned on being out here, I'd thought I would be alone. As it turned out, Quentin had also moved in, along with a cook/housekeeper named Raisa, so between them and Oliver it hardly seemed like I would have time to get lonely. It wasn't like I was afraid of being alone; I wasn't even afraid of the house necessarily, but – given the random shooting thing – it did seem like a lot to tackle on my own.

That night at eight o'clock, once I'd organized my stuff and was wondering what I was supposed to do next, there was a light knock on the bedroom door.

"Come in."

Quentin opened the door a crack and poked his head in, eyes averted, like he was afraid I might be naked or something.

"You can come in, Quentin," I said. "I'm decent."

I was on the bed, on top of the covers despite the chill, with notebooks and a dozen textbooks spread out on the quilt. Quentin took a hesitant step past the threshold. He still wore his jeans and button-up shirt, the only sign of domesticity a pair of leather slippers that looked well broken-in.

"I was getting ready to turn in, but figured I'd check in, see if I could get you anything more before bed."

I quirked an eyebrow. "You're my lawyer, Quentin, not my man servant. And I guess you're not really even my lawyer – you were Moira and Robert's lawyer. You don't have to wait on me."

"I know," he said. He looked sheepish. "I'm just glad you're here, and I know it's been a tough day. If there's anything I can do…"

"You've done plenty," I said firmly. "You and Oliver and Willa have been amazing all day – I'm fine. Go to bed. Get a good night's sleep. I might actually need a hand on the grounds tomorrow, or at least in the next week or two. Save your energy for that."

"Will do. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Quentin."

I refocused on my books only to realize a second later that he hadn't actually gone yet. I looked up. "Was there something else?"

He took a step toward me, and I realized for the first time that he held something behind his back. After another pause, he produced a hefty hardbound tome that looked positively ancient. "I wasn't sure if you were aware, but we have an extensive library here."

I still hadn't gotten much of the tour of the house, since I'd spent my afternoon recovering from the shock of not dying at the hands of a masked gunman instead of getting acquainted with my new digs. A library in a house like this shouldn't have been a surprise, but a shiver of excitement went through me all the same.

"No," I said. "I'll have to look in there tomorrow. I love old books. And new books. Pretty much any books, really."

"Moira felt the same way," Quentin said, with a sad smile. "That room was her favorite place to be, back before…"

I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. Predictably enough, he didn't. Instead, he changed the subject.

"Anyway, included in the library is a section containing the family archives."

I looked at him sharply. "Seriously? There are family archives?"

He walked to the bed and set the book down quickly, then retreated before I got the wrong idea. "This is just one volume. Like I said, there's a whole section down there. It seemed like something you might be interested in. Malcolm and Reggie weren't sure it was a good idea to give you access. I don't agree."

"Thank you – I'm glad someone's on my side out here." I eagerly picked up the volume he'd given me. "You're right, I'm definitely interested in this. It means a lot – I really appreciate it."

He shrugged. "It's the least I can do, now that you're here. Give a shout if you need anything in the night. I'm over in the east wing, but Oliver will hear you. He can get me."

"I'll be fine, Quentin," I reassured him. "Get some sleep."

He left this time, and I managed to restrain myself from diving in until he'd closed the door behind him and I was alone once more. As soon as he was gone, though, I opened the book and was lost.

The volume Quentin had given me turned out to be mostly about the family business: land deals, birth and marriage and death certificates, galleries and exhibitions and which Merlyn paintings sold for how much. There were only two photos, both of men from the late 1800s, one of whom turned out to be Byron Merlyn – the patriarch of the family.

I was able to learn more about the girls whose memories had been replaying inside my head all these years, though. I knew their names from the visions, and so gradually put together where all six of them fit into the family tree.

The farthest back was Rose, daughter of Byron and Mary. She was born in 1902, but I couldn't find any marriage or death certificate with her information. The next was Lily, born in 1928 only to die five years later. There was no cause of death listed on the death certificate, but a yellowed newspaper article included with the page said that she'd fallen off the cliffs out on the island. I swallowed past tears, thinking of a laughing, pudgy little blond girl in my visions.

Winnie came next, in 1940 – great granddaughter to Byron and Mary. The girl died at twelve years old, during a storm out on the island. I thought of the vision I'd had the most of her: a gangly pre-teen with her hair done up in braids, boarding a sailboat as the sky went dark overhead.

Winnie's mother, Rachel, died two years later.

I closed my eyes. I loved Rachel – in my visions, I'd always found her to be such a comforting presence. She and Winnie had been inseparable; they played all the time, Rachel barely more than a teenager herself when her daughter was born. Losing Winnie had killed her, I was sure of it. It wasn't something she would have gotten over.

Next was Ella, born in 1954. She was killed when her foot got stuck on the train tracks when she and her parents were visiting the mainland.

My stomach turned.

I closed the book before I could read anymore.

Four of the six girls had met terrible ends. What did that mean? Why was I seeing their lives now? How did I somehow have access to their memories, decades after their deaths?

It was nearly midnight by now. I stacked my books neatly by the bed with the family tome at the very bottom, then turned out the lamp and lay down. An owl called in the distance, the sound lonely in the stillness. The house creaked and moaned.

_Close your eyes,_ a voice whispered in my ear. A man's voice. Instead of doing as instructed, my eyes shot open wide. I lay perfectly still, heart hammering in my ears.

_I'm not tired,_ Rose said, a trace of petulance in her voice. _How am I supposed to sleep when you're beside me looking like that?_

Ray turned over to look at her, only it felt a lot like he'd rolled over to look at me. His eyes were clear, magnetic, a playful smile on his lips.

_Now, now, Rose,_ he said softly. _I just came to say goodnight. No funny stuff._

_But where's the fun in that?_ she whispered.

His eyes darkened. My heart sped up, my belly coiled tight when he looked at me – at her – with a kind of want I had never seen before.

_I should go,_ he said. The words came out hoarse.

_Or you could stay,_ Rose said. There was still teasing there, sure, but beneath it I heard a kind of vulnerability that I didn't usually associate with Rose. In the vision, she was probably sixteen, maybe seventeen years old. I could feel her loneliness, the pain of need so deep that it ached. _Please, Ray,_ she continued. _Nights are too long without you. Just stay with me._

Her hand reached out to him, and she ran her knuckles along his jaw. I could feel the stubble beneath my own hand, the warmth of his body against my own. I'd had these visions my entire life, but I'd never experienced anything like this. Ray reached for her, removing her hand to bring it to his lips. He pressed a soft kiss to her palm.

_All right, then,_ he whispered._ I'll stay. But to sleep – nothing more. Close your eyes._

Almost against my will, my own eyes sank shut. I felt his gentling hand on me as he pushed the hair back from my forehead.

_Sleep, sweet Rose, _he said softly. He kissed my forehead, his body a gentle pressure against mine. _Have sweet dreams, my love._


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks so much to those who are reviewing, I'm so glad to hear people are enjoying this! There are definitely some theories flying around as to what's going on... The mystery deepens here, but I promise before long you (and Felicity) will start getting some answers. :-) _

* * *

For the next two days, I did my best to keep myself distracted from the shooting at the house and the impending horror of a weekend with Reggie, Malcolm, Tommy, and Thea. Thankfully, it turned out that distractions were easy to come by at Merlyn Manor. Though the temperature still fell to freezing at night, I took full advantage of the patchy sunlight and comparatively milder temps during the day.

I started by doing a full survey of the grounds, notebook in hand as I calculated the position of the sun, logged plants and animals – mostly birds – spotted on my treks, and envisioned how I might better use the land that had been cleared before. Oliver was with me for most of these treks, though he tended to keep his distance; there were times when I forgot he was there at all. For the most part, I was grateful to know someone was keeping an eye on me given the events of the first day, but before long the idea that I might never be truly alone again started to wear on me.

"There hasn't been any sign of someone since the shooting," I said to him during my walk on a cold but clear Thursday morning. Oliver walked a couple of steps behind me, silent and omnipresent.

"That was only two days ago," he pointed out. "It hardly means you're in the clear."

"I know that," I agreed. "But do you really have to be here all the time? I mean… Not that I don't appreciate your dedication to the job, but you must have other things to do. Don't you?"

"Not at the moment," he said, in typically terse Oliver fashion.

"You don't ever want to be alone?" I asked. "You don't even have someone to relieve you if something comes up. What if your family gets sick or something?"

"I don't have any family."

If I wasn't sober enough, that certainly did the trick. "None?" I turned to look at him on the path. He shook his head. His face remained impassive, though his eyes seemed darker than usual.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know how that is – not having anyone. There were foster families for me growing up, but none that stuck for long. Case workers come and go in the foster system, so it wasn't like there was any consistency there either."

"I'm fine," he said, though with a surprising softness to the words. His smile – slight as it might have been – warmed his eyes. I nodded.

"Right – of course you are. No offense, Oliver, but you seem like the kind of guy who's always fine…until you're not fine, and then God help us all."

He chuckled a little. "Well, for the moment it's true. I'll give you fair warning if anything changes."

The finality of his tone told me that was all he was willing to say. The conversation effectively over, I continued walking.

There was a man-made pond on the south side of the Merlyn property that got full sun during the day, surrounded by marshy wetlands that would be a haven for wildlife once the spring thaw got fully under way. The pond was at least five acres across, easily large enough to justify bringing a kayak out for leisurely afternoons. I spotted a dozen nesting red-winged blackbirds among the reeds, and knew it wouldn't be long before the nights were filled with a chorus of frogs searching for mates for the upcoming breeding season. That morning, I sketched the area until my fingers were too frozen to do any more, and returned to Merlyn Manor with Oliver trailing, as always, just a few steps behind.

Friday morning, I woke earlier than usual. It was still dark outside, just past five a.m., and the knowledge that the family would soon descend was not something I looked forward to. Thea really did seem nice, and I obviously had never had a cousin before; there were possibilities there, as long as her father didn't poison her against me. But Reggie, Malcolm, and Tommy were all clearly unhappy to have me around, and one – or all? – of them was presumably responsible for the bandage on my temple and the recently repaired window in the Merlyn study.

When I got up, Oliver's bedroom door was still closed and the house was quiet. I went downstairs to the kitchen, which was just as dark as the rest of the house, and was surprised to find no sign of Oliver or Quentin. I was usually up by six, and it seemed at that point like both men had been up for hours. I debated knocking on Oliver's door, but he didn't seem like the kind of guy who usually slept in; he could probably use the rest.

Ignoring any qualms I might have had, I left the house alone. The pond had become a favorite destination, and this morning I was looking forward to catching the sunrise over the water. With long johns beneath my jeans and a parka Quentin had gotten me to ward off the cold, I hit the trail. The sun was just coming up on the horizon when I arrived, the sky streaked with pink and gold.

I paused at the edge of the woods and lifted my binoculars to my eyes. Three deer waded in the shallows, while a heron fished on the opposite shore. I held my breath. Deer were a problem out here, since the lack of predators and a small gene pool meant genetic abnormalities and a population that quickly got out of control. A few years ago, the locals had solved this problem by hiring someone to come out and kill every last one of them. These must have swum over from a neighboring island. Watching the trio that morning, I vowed never to let that happen again.

My attention shifted to the heron. How many other species would I find here before the year was out? Quentin had asked if I wanted to put a dock in, maybe restock the pond for fishing. I told him definitely not – not that I'm against fishing, but I preferred the grounds like this: wild, untamed, and as untouched by man as possible. His smile had reassured me that we were on the same page on that count.

The sound of a branch breaking behind me pulled me from my reverie. The deer looked up, ears twitching. I turned, half-expecting Oliver to be there. I was wrong.

I froze, as a massive black Newfoundland – almost as much fur as flesh – walked sedately along the path. He spotted me at roughly the same time I saw him, and a huge dogged grin broke across his woolly face.

Before I could make a move, he bounded toward me. The deer fled; the heron flapped its massive wings and lumbered away.

The dog pounced, nearly knocking me over when his giant paws hit my chest.

"Baron!" a familiar voice called, and the name echoed in my head. A great black puppy appeared in my mind's eye, rolling in the grass in ecstasy.

_Rose, you'll ruin your clothes. Get away from that thing._

And Rose's familiar voice in reply: _I won't. I'd rather lie with the dogs than be stuck in the house with you all. Just leave me be. Baron needs company._

I shook my head, clearing it of the visions as I gently pushed the Newfoundland away. He bumped against me, furry tail waving as Ray appeared and tried to pull him off. My heart sped up at sight of the man I hadn't seen apart from bizarre – and sometimes uncomfortably intimate – visions late at night alone in my room.

"Sorry," he said. "He's usually better behaved than this."

"It's no problem. I love dogs."

"Still, I didn't mean to disturb the wildlife and turn your morning upside down."

"The deer will be back, Ray," I said, unable to hide a smile. Our eyes held. All those voices seemed to echo at once, Rose's by far the loudest, whenever I spoke his name. "They're used to having the run of the island with no predators – I'm sure they're as tame as petting zoo fawns at this point. Your dog doesn't seem that scary, anyway."

"I don't know if the deer feel the same way, but I'll take your word for it."

"What's his name?" I asked.

"Baron."

I stared at him for a beat or two, confused. The puppy in my vision had also been Baron, but that had been over a century ago.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I just… I knew a puppy named Baron once. I think."

"Did you?" he said. The question seemed loaded, his dark eyes intent on mine. I struggled to refocus. It turned out not to be that difficult once I paid a little more attention to the man before me. He wore jeans and a long wool jacket, a checkered brown scarf around his neck that made his eyes seem that much darker. I could hardly look away.

"I'm sorry – I know I'm on your land out here," he said, when the silence between us started to get awkward.

"Don't worry about it," I said immediately. "The Merlyns may have a problem with you, but I just found out I'm a Merlyn – I don't share their grudges. As long as you and Baron are civil to the wild things out here, you're welcome to visit whenever you like."

"Oh, we always are," he assured me solemnly, a playful light in his eyes.

"Then you're welcome to take advantage of the place whenever you like. Or…" I bit my lip, debating before I continued in a rush, "…you could join me sometime, if you wanted. I'm here most days." I didn't mention that I was usually here with Oliver three steps behind, since it seemed like that could kill the mood.

"That would be nice," Ray said. "I may take you up on that."

Cheeks heated to the point of bursting into flame, I tried not to grin like a complete idiot. "Good," I managed.

We walked on in silence, occasionally pausing so I could snap a photo or jot down a note in my notebook.

"You're quite the naturalist," Ray observed after we'd been walking for some time. "Is that what you studied in school?"

"Environmental science and architectural landscaping actually," I said, and soon found myself telling him about working in landscaping back in Portland, and some of my favorite jobs while I'd been there.

"Maybe you could do something with my place," he said, almost casually, once I finally stopped chattering about myself.

"The glass mansion on the mountain?" I said.

He stopped walking and turned to me, smiling as he studied my face. "You've seen it, then?"

"It's pretty hard to miss."

"I suppose so," he agreed. "You'll have to come up sometime – the view is extraordinary. And I really would love some advice on what to do with the grounds."

That got me off on another tangent, but I got the feeling Ray wasn't actually listening and eventually I faded out, content to just walk with him. Baron walked alongside me, so close that he occasionally bumped his big body against my thigh. Ray walked on the other side of the dog whenever the path was wide enough to allow it, which was worlds different from the way Oliver accompanied me, seemingly going out of his way to be invisible when we were together.

We had almost made it all the way around the pond when Ray stopped abruptly on the trail. He grabbed Baron's collar before the dog could take another step, signaling for me to stop as well.

"Wait," he said quietly. "Look over there."

He nodded toward an oak tree, one giant limb dangling – no doubt a casualty of the winter winds. I raised my binoculars to my eyes, scanning the trees.

"At the top of the dead limb," he said. He shifted my body, his hands warm on my shoulders, and I flinched automatically at the contact. I didn't back away, though.

I couldn't.

_Your shoulders need to be back. Honestly, Rose, you'll be a hunchback before you're thirty,_ Ray said. The Ray of my dreams – or visions. Or whatever this was. The Ray of old.

_I don't see why I need to learn to waltz anyway. It's so old fashioned._

_Because I'll want to waltz with my wife on our wedding day,_ he said. I watched as he leaned down and kissed her quickly, stopped by the light in both their eyes.

I stepped away from Ray, trying to push past the visions at the same time.

"You were married to her," I said, the words coming out before I could stop them. Not _him,_ I reminded myself. I wasn't seeing him in these visions. How could I be?

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "Married to whom?" A haunted edge touched his eyes.

I shook my head, continuing to back away. A great horned owl swooped from the dead limb – the thing Ray had been trying to point out, no doubt.

"Felicity," he said quietly, though there was no mistaking the urgency in his tone. "Look at me. Married to who?"

"No one," I mumbled. I started to walk away but was stopped by his hand on my shoulder, turning me to face him.

I saw him and Rose kiss, something desperate in the embrace; saw Ray kneeling on the ground beside Mara Merlyn, cradling her young, broken body. Saw Lucy – the girl who would have been my sister – gasping for breath in the swirling ocean before something came crashing down on her head.

I gasped, trying to pull myself from the memories.

Not memories.

These couldn't possibly be memories.

"Felicity, listen to me," Ray said. His voice pulled me back. I was on the ground, sitting up with my knees curled to my chest. Ray hovered close, though he seemed afraid to touch me. Thank God, I added silently. I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take.

"You knew my name the other day," he said, those dark eyes never leaving mine. "You knew me. How?"

I shook my head. "I'm not – I don't know. I heard people talking about you."

"No," he insisted. "You _knew_ me. How do you know me, Felicity?"

I pushed myself up, gathering the notes that had scattered around me when I fell, and then backed away. "The family is coming today, for the weekend. I need to get back."

If possible, his expression darkened even further. "Which family?" he demanded, like I had six other clumps of long-lost relatives waiting in the wings somewhere. "Reggie? Malcolm?"

Before I could answer, Baron started barking beside us. The sound of footsteps and crashing undergrowth came closer; there was no doubt in my mind this time who it was.

"Felicity!" Oliver said. He shot a glare at Ray, with enough violence behind it that I stepped back. "What happened? I saw you go down—"

"You saw?" I asked. "How long have you been back there following us?"

"It's my job to follow you," he reminded me, unnecessarily as it happened. "You seemed fine, I was trying to give you some privacy. But then—"

"I'm all right, Oliver," I said. "I just…tripped."

Ray grimaced at that, but he didn't argue the point. Instead, he remained focused on what we'd been talking about before Oliver interrupted.

"The Merlyns are visiting this weekend?" he demanded, this time directing the question to Oliver.

"I have it under control, Ray," Oliver said.

"Like you did the other day?" he demanded. "She was shot—"

"Wait." I practically squeaked the word. "You knew about that?" I turned to Oliver. "How did he know about that?"

Oliver didn't even look at me. "I didn't know the threat level then," he said, in that dangerously even tone that made the hair on the back of my neck come to attention. "I know it now. I've got this."

Ray tore his gaze from Oliver's and shifted to look at me, concern in those beautiful brown eyes. "Be careful," he said. He studied me. Despite everything, I found myself pinned by that gaze once more. I stepped closer, almost against my will. "Your return to Merlyn Manor is a threat to a lot of people. Watch yourself."

He hesitated before he reached into his pocket and took out an expensive-looking leather wallet. For a brief, completely bizarre moment, I thought he was going to hand me cash. Instead, he gave me a business card. Written in a neat, old-fashioned script were the words,

Ray Palmer  
Video Game Development

I stared stupidly at the card for a second.

"If you need anything at all, I can be at the manor in fifteen minutes. Or less, depending on circumstances. Day or night, you can call me."

I glanced at Oliver, curious how he was taking this. He stood off to the side, his jaw tensed and his eyes averted.

"Thank you," I muttered.

"I would like to see you again, Felicity," Ray said. His eyes searched mine, and I remembered the near-desperation in his voice when he'd spoken before._ How do you know me?_ "I would like to finish our conversation."

I nodded, my mouth gone dry. "Just… After this weekend, maybe? Give me a little bit of time. I don't… I'm not really sure what's happening."

"Of course," he agreed. He looked disappointed. _You're mine, Rose,_ I heard the old Ray say. The words – and especially the intensity behind them – stopped me. _Now and forever._ "Whenever you're ready, you know where to find me."

I left him without checking with Oliver first, only vaguely aware of Baron woofing after me or the fact that Oliver didn't immediately follow. He and Ray were talking about me again, I had no doubt, but this time I couldn't find the will to hang around to find out what they were saying. Did I even want to know?

I didn't slow down until I was safely back at the Manor once more.

"Felicity, wait!" Oliver called after me.

I didn't wait, though. I burst through the front door and slammed it shut behind me, willing my heart back to a normal rhythm. I leaned back against the solid wood frame, gasping for breath.

"Well, well, well," Malcolm said to me. He sat in a leather armchair by the fire, Tommy in the chair opposite him. "Look what the cat dragged in."

* * *

_I'll be back tomorrow with another new chapter, that one with more of Oliver and Felicity. See you then, and don't forget to drop a line/review if you're enjoying things. I'd also love to hear any theories people have about what's happening!_


	8. Chapter 8

_TRIGGER WARNING: There's nothing graphic in this chapter, but there are intimations of sexual assault and a violent situation revolving around that. This isn't a recurring theme within the fic, but is an important part of the story. _

* * *

"I tried to warn you," Oliver said as he came through the door just behind me.

"Felicity!" Thea cried, just coming in from outside the room. She rushed to me and pulled me into a hug that, predictably enough, triggered a whole cascade of Merlyn ancestors shouting in my head. I managed to extricate myself as gracefully as possible, which probably wasn't that graceful at all, but at least the girl was kind enough not to look too offended.

"I was so worried after we heard what happened," she said.

"I'm okay," I assured her. "Oliver was there, and whoever it was didn't do any permanent damage."

"Nevertheless," Malcolm said, rising from his chair by the fire, "I don't know how wise it is for you to be out here. Obviously, there are people on the island who aren't happy Merlyn Manor is occupied once more."

"And I don't suppose you have any idea who those people are," Quentin said.

"None," Malcolm said. He looked at Tommy. "We're having someone look into it, of course. The Merlyn family has seen enough tragedy – it won't do to lose another of our own so soon after Moira's death."

"I still don't understand how this happened," Reggie said. He'd come in just after Thea, and now stood apart from the others with what looked like genuine concern on his face. "No one even knows you're out here."

"No one outside the family, anyway," Quentin said darkly.

"I may have mentioned it to a few of the locals," Malcolm said.

"You what?" Oliver demanded, taking me by surprise.

"People are always curious about what's going on here," Malcolm defended himself, somehow managing not to sound the least bit defensive. "They of course heard about the accident and Moira's death – I was simply explaining to them what was happening with the manor. It's a small island; they were bound to hear sooner or later anyway."

"Why does it matter whether they know I'm here or not?" I asked, unclear on why Oliver looked so freaked out. "It doesn't actually have anything to do with them, does it? I mean, it's not like we own the whole island. They go about their business, and I go about mine."

"There have been some disputes in the past about fishing on Crab's Neck," Reggie explained. "Moira was very hands-off about the whole thing, and local fishermen have gotten used to having their run of Crab's Neck."

"Why wouldn't that continue now that I'm here? Individuals don't have property rights to the ocean, at least not beyond the tidal zone."

"No," Malcolm agreed. "But Merlyn property includes the waterfront here on the island as well as the Crab's Neck wharf and a fish processing plant on the north shore. Moira was exceedingly generous about leasing that property to other island residents who made better use of the facilities than we would have." He paused. "I may have mentioned your connection with environmental issues, and it's possible that some of the men got it in their heads that you could be a threat."

"Why the hell would you do that?" Quentin demanded, beating Oliver to the punch. Though not the actual, physical punch – if anyone was going to be hitting someone, right now it definitely looked like it would be Oliver.

"I'm not responsible for how these people process information," Malcolm said coolly. "I told them what I know. It's not my fault if they immediately leap to the worst conclusion."

"Right," Oliver said through clenched teeth. "I'm sure you didn't have anything to do with that."

"I would be less concerned with what I'm doing," Malcolm said to him, "and more concerned with making sure Felicity survives the coming year. It seems like that will take up a good portion of your time going forward."

"Thanks to you," Oliver said.

Malcolm shrugged. "Perhaps." He shifted his focus back to me. "Now, Felicity… I expect you'll want to put on something a bit more…respectable, before you join us for breakfast?"

I grit my teeth and ignored my flaming cheeks at his condescension. "Right. Of course. Just give me a few minutes – I'll be down shortly."

Things went downhill fast from there. At dinner that night, after an interminable day of questions about my past and my future and my intentions here on the island, there was an argument over who should sit at the head of the table; my father had taken the spot previously. Ultimately, Reggie got the seat of honor, but I thought Malcolm would knock him out cold before it was finally decided. Quentin pointed out that, since the house was mine at least for the next year and Moira and Robert were, after all, my parents, maybe I should be the one at the head of the table. I shut him down with a look before he could press the issue. I don't like confrontation, at least not over idiotic things like seating arrangements.

Oliver refused to join us at the table, instead choosing to lurk just outside the room like some kind of psychotic creeper – a very attractive psychotic creeper, don't get me wrong, but still. Someone should really have a talk with him about his propensity for brooding. It didn't seem healthy. Considering the way he looked at Malcolm and Tommy, however, I wasn't about to bring the subject up any time soon.

Quentin helped Raisa prepare the meal that evening and get it on the table, while the Merlyns sat in an uncomfortable silence punctuated by occasional conversation about the company. I was just getting used to having a waitstaff of sorts – which technically was the role Raisa played. She was from Hungary, she'd told me when we first met, her dark features and near-black eyes so striking that it was easy to get lost in them sometimes. On an island as lily-white as Crab's Neck was, it was refreshing having even a hint of color around there. Not that I wasn't just as lily-white as the rest of them, of course.

The rest of the family took Raisa's presence as a matter of course, and no one seemed to think twice about having one woman serve an elaborate meal to an entire family of able-bodied adults. I got up at one point and helped her and Quentin carry food in from the kitchen, and you would have thought I'd slit someone's throat and left them to bleed out on the antique Persian rug. Malcolm grimaced and Tommy and Reggie looked apoplectic; Thea grinned heartily, though.

"What do you know?" she quipped. "For the first time in Merlyn history, I'm not the one making the ancestors roll over in their graves."

Once the seating was decided and the meal on the table, there was an argument over whether Reggie was truly lactose intolerant or just trying to get attention when he refused cream in his coffee.

"Why would I want attention for being lactose intolerant?" he asked. "Wouldn't I make up something more attractive than a condition that makes me gassy and bloated?" He wore a deep green sweater that went well with his eyes, making him appear heartier than he had in our first meeting. He sat beside Thea, and I couldn't help but notice how close the two seemed.

"Lactose intolerance is very trendy right now," Malcolm informed us imperiously.

"Actually," Thea said, "gluten sensitivity is way cooler than lactose intolerance – that's _so_ 1995." Malcolm glowered at her, but she didn't look the least bit intimidated. "What? If you're going to be petty, you should at least be accurate and petty."

I coughed a laugh and nearly choked.

"What about you, Felicity?" Tommy asked me from the other end of the table.

"Excuse me?" I said. I had a spear of asparagus on my fork and half a filet of salmon left on my plate. Raisa was an amazing cook, but it was hard to be enthusiastic about much of anything in these people's presence. "What about me what?"

"Food sensitivities. Or preferences."

"Oh." I shrugged. "Not really – I'm easy, I guess. I like fresh vegetables, organic if I can get them. I don't eat a lot of meat. Otherwise, though…"

"You're not one of those vegans, are you?" Malcolm asked.

"Which one is the vegan?" Reggie asked.

"Nothing with a face," Malcolm said. "Not even bees."

"Bees?" Reggie said, looking confused. "Who eats bees?"

"Honey," Malcolm said impatiently. "They don't eat honey."

"You don't eat honey?" Tommy asked me. He didn't look any less baffled now that honey was the issue, not the eating of the bees themselves. "Why on earth wouldn't you eat honey?"

"Um – I think it has to do with the treatment of the hive. But I'm not vegan," I reminded him.

"The treatment of the hive," Malcolm echoed. "What does that even mean? Good people make their livings harvesting honey, and they give those bees a good place to live. Why would you be against that?"

"I'm not. I'm not vegan," I said again. "I don't eat a lot of meat – but I eat some." I nodded to the fish on my plate. "Clearly. And I eat honey."

"What about leather?" Malcolm asked.

"What does leather have to do with anything?" Thea wanted to know.

I gave up after that.

That night, everyone but Thea retired to their respective rooms by seven o'clock. Meanwhile, Thea announced that she was going back to the mainland, gave me a last apologetic glance, and left over the protests of the rest of the family. I don't think I've envied anyone more than I did her, watching her go off alone to return to her life without us.

Oliver had left me to attend to some business once he thought I was safely locked away, but I found after twenty minutes pacing in my room that I didn't have the heart to stay put. There was a full moon outside, and the house seemed completely uninviting, infested as it was with my unwelcoming relations. I decided to try my luck in what passed for a town on Crab's Neck, rather than spend another minute hiding out in my creepy new-old bedroom.

I was also curious about what Malcolm had said about the Merlyn facilities on the waterfront, and the relationship our family had with the fishermen out here. I'd studied oceanic sustainability extensively in college; owning a fishery and having a relationship with professional fishermen was a rare opportunity to work with them on creating something more sustainable for both them and the resident aquaculture going forward. Sure, some of them might initially have a problem with me, but once I explained myself and we had a chance to talk, who knew where it could lead. Right?

_It's not a good idea, Felicity._ I could almost hear Oliver's voice in my head, but since he wasn't here at the moment, I chose to ignore it.

The center of town on Crab's Neck overlooked the ocean, and consisted of the American Legion hall, the fire department/school/town office/library, and a town market that charged ten dollars for ketchup and had such erratic hours that, so far, I had yet to catch them when they weren't either closed or closing.

Since the store was predictably shuttered and the multi-purpose town gathering place likewise dark, I opted for the American Legion.

The Legion was housed in an old brick building that looked like it could survive a hurricane (and probably had) without flinching. A cluster of men in coveralls and flannel jackets smoked outside the entrance. Conversation stopped as I approached the door, and I felt their eyes on me. A voice in the back of my head – this one definitely my own – warned me that that this might not be my best idea ever.

I hesitated. Then I thought of the hostile clan awaiting my return at the manor, and decided I would take my chances. To be clear, I hadn't completely forgotten about the shooting incident at the house earlier in the week; frankly, though, I had convinced myself that Malcolm was at the root of that, not someone else on the island.

I would be fine.

I nodded to the men as I passed, and reached for the door. The smallest among them, a lean, wiry man in a flannel cap, filthy work jeans, and T-shirt despite the cold, stepped in front of me to get the door.

"Thank you," I mumbled, avoiding eye contact when he stepped in too close.

"My pleasure, darlin'. Come on in."

The place was dimly lit with neon beer signs and a couple of pool tables – both being used – in the back. A jukebox played AC/DC at full volume. A cursory glance around told me I was the only woman there. Not a good sign. A dozen pairs of eyes were on me as I stood in the doorway, door still open as I tried to decide my next move.

"You in or out?" a giant black man behind the bar said. "You're letting winter in."

I closed the door obediently, but didn't move any further into the room. The bartender was maybe thirty years old, very good looking and very, very built, his dark hair cut military-short. A chalkboard that looked like it hadn't been touched in a decade listed five kinds of beer, in sloping writing:

Bud, Bud Light, Molson, Rolling Rock, and PBR.

Beneath it, in capital letters, was written: NO TAP. NO DRAFT. WHAT YOU SEE IS WHAT YOU GET.

All righty, then.

I went to the bar and ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon. The bartender didn't ask for ID, which was rare for me; instead, he just shoved a coaster across the bar at me and poured my beer into a not-entirely clean glass.

"That's five bucks," he said.

I fumbled with my wallet and managed to get out a ten. He gave me five ones for change, and left me alone.

For half an hour, I nursed the beer while conversation around me got louder and the jukebox churned out hard-driving hits and bad '90s power ballads. No one approached me. No one attempted conversation. I didn't feel neglected, however, since every man appeared to be watching me.

I finished my beer, looked at the clock, and ordered another. It was just after eight-thirty. I'd brought a book with me, a textbook on perennials native to the Maine coast, and opened that as the bartender slid the second beer to me.

I was just getting into a chapter on flowering plants most beneficial to wildlife in the Northeast when the stool beside me moved.

"This seat taken?" a gruff voice asked. I looked up to see the man who'd held the door open for me, sliding into the seat before I had a chance to answer. Now that we were closer, I realized he probably wasn't that much older than me – mid-twenties at the oldest.

"No," I murmured. He smelled like beer and stale cigarettes, biceps bulging in his too-tight T-shirt. He had to be freezing; I still had my jacket on, and still had to fight to keep from shivering. I sensed eyes on us, though I didn't look up from my book enough to see.

Once seated, he leaned closer under the pretense of trying to see my book. "What's that?" he asked. "You in college, sweetheart?"

"No. Just something I'm interested in." I said it without looking at him, hoping he would take the hint. No such luck.

He took the book from my hands. For the first time, a cold edge of genuine fear ran through me. "_Landscaping for Wildlife,_ huh?" he said, reading the title aloud. "No kidding. Pretty little thing like you, landscaping? That's hard work."

"It can be," I said uneasily. The man was seated too close, hovering over me, glassy eyes searching mine when I met his gaze. His buddies were snickering in the corner, and the bartender seemed to be working very hard not to see what was happening, focused instead on a basketball game playing on the TV over the bar.

My stomach tightened when a second man, this one a few years older than the first, took the stool on the other side of me.

"You're not bothering this pretty young thing, are you, Brett?" the man asked. He had dark hair and darker eyes, and clearly had been drinking here for a while. The way he said the words made it clear he wasn't here to save me. "You know who this is, don't you?"

Brett shook his head. "Pretty tail from away – I don't need to know more than that, do I?"

"This here is the newest Merlyn," the other man said. "Long lost, from what I hear."

Brett got closer – if that was even possible – and studied my face intently. "Shit. You're right – she's got Merlyn written all over her. The glasses fooled me, I guess. Anyway, we were just talking, Curt. Doesn't matter whether she's a Merlyn or not – I'm not bothering you, am I, sweetheart?"

The challenge in his eyes made me think there would be repercussions if I said yes. My pulse ticked up. Okay, yeah. This had definitely been a mistake.

"No," I said. "I was actually just leaving. They're expecting me at home."

"Are they now, baby?" the second man – Curt – said. "Because the way I heard it, nobody's all that happy to welcome you to the fold." I slid my book into my bag with shaking hands, put another five on the bar for the bartender, and finished the last of my beer in a long gulp.

Which, in hindsight, was my second mistake of the night. Or third. I was starting to lose count. Somewhere along the lines, another man had joined Brett and Curt – this one standing directly behind me, so that I nearly collided with him when I got off the barstool.

I swayed a little when my feet touched the floor. Brett's hand shot out to steady me, his fingers wrapped too tight at my elbow. The others moved closer. I pulled away, desperate to keep any visons at bay. This was _so_ not the time.

"Let her go," a familiar voice said, somewhere through the haze of the other men. They parted, all three now focused on the interloper.

Oliver looked as dark and brooding as ever. The way he held his body reminded me of a cobra coiled to strike. He stood at the bar entrance, and I wondered hazily how long he'd been there – or how he had known to come.

"This doesn't concern you, Oliver," Curt said. "You were Moira's bitch, not this one's. Why don't you get along and leave this one to us."

Oliver came forward. He took me in with a swift glance, searching my face before he shifted focus to the others. "Moira's bitch, huh? That's what you boys have been calling me?"

"And if we have?" Curt demanded.

Oliver took another stride forward, until he and Curt were toe to toe. Brett took my arm, pulling me out of the way. At the contact, the world around me blurred, then vanished.

_Leave her alone!_ Ray's voice – I recognized it easily. I saw another dimly lit bar, but without the neon signs. Instead, the décor was old-fashioned, the men dressed in casual wear straight out of the 1920s. I felt a hand close around my throat. And suddenly, I wasn't just watching this vision play out from the sidelines.

I was in it.

I was on my back on a pool table, a man with dark eyes poised over me while half a dozen others cheered him on, his hand wrapped around my throat. I clutched at it desperately, trying to claw his fingers away.

_Rose!_ Ray shouted. A man held him back as he fought, and I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move, as the man poised above me reached down to unbuckle his belt.

I fought my way back from the vision, only to find the present not that much more promising.

Curt had Oliver by the shirt collar, the unidentified third man from earlier now behind my bodyguard, holding his arms. Oliver glanced at me, looking genuinely worried for the first time, and I realized that he'd seen the moment when the vision took hold of me. When he saw that I was back, he shifted focus to Curt once more.

"Not so tough now, huh?" Curt said. "I've wanted to get hold of you for a while, the way you strut around this island like you're king of the fucking hill."

"Let go of me," Oliver said, his voice dead even, "and let me take the girl home. We can just chalk this up to some bad decision making and be done with it."

The third man tightened his hold on Oliver's arms. If it were me, I was sure I would have at least winced; Oliver didn't move. "And if we don't?" he asked Oliver.

Oliver wet his lips. "Then this will end badly for you."

"That so?" Curt said. "Well, consider me warned. I'm shaking in my waders." He pulled his fist back to land the first punch. Before he could make his move, Oliver slammed his forehead into the bridge of the man's nose with a crunch of bone that made my eyes water.

"Come on – you're with me," Brett said to me under his breath, while half the bar got up to wade into the fight.

The bar of old and the one in the here and now wavered in front of me, and I fought against Brett while Oliver landed blow after blow just a few feet away. Brett was surprisingly strong given how lean he was, but frankly I was tired of his whole macho shtick. This time when he reached for my arm, I whirled on him. I brought my knee up hard into his crotch, at the same time striking fast with the heel of my hand to his exposed throat. Gasping for air, he went to his knees. When I'd told Oliver that first day that I wasn't helpless, I meant it.

I didn't waste time to celebrate, horrified to find that Oliver was back in his previous position, arms held behind his back, while Curt – blood streaming from what was clearly a broken nose – wound up to land another blow. Instead of the original three that had been at the middle of the fight, that number had more than tripled. Someone reached for my shoulder, and I plunged my elbow backward into soft flesh even as Rose's screams echoed in my head. The third man from before – the one who had been holding Oliver – was suddenly beside me, his hand wrapped around my throat.

Oliver, the bar, everything familiar, vanished.

_Don't do this!_ Ray shouted, while Rose – while _I_ – lay prone on a pool table, a stranger's hand around my throat as the man I'd seen before in the vision dropped his now-unbuckled trousers. I fought, screamed, lashed out. There was no air.

"Felicity," a familiar voice said, close to my ear. I flinched, with a strangled cry that I barely recognized as my own.

The pressure around my neck eased; the old-timey bar vanished.

I was on the ground, Oliver kneeling beside me with his forehead furrowed. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, his lip and knuckles bleeding.

"Come back to me, Felicity," he said softly. "You're all right. You're safe." I gazed up at him a moment, caught yet again by those blue eyes – well, the one that wasn't swollen shut. He reached out as though to touch me but let his hand fall, looking awkward and seriously worried.

"Are you back?" he asked.

I wet my lips. I could still feel the hand around my neck, and remembered that someone had grabbed my throat in this timeline, as well. But Rose… How had things ended for her? Where were she and Ray?

I sat up quickly and looked around, still disoriented. The bartender was righting barstools that had been toppled in the fight, and half the patrons had mysteriously vanished. A couple of older men were back at the bar with pints of beer, like nothing had happened.

"Your eye," I said. I reached out without even thinking, and froze an instant before my hand made contact with Oliver's face.

"I'm all right," he said shortly, then pulled away. I caught a hint of anger in the words. "If you can stand, get up. They're gone for now, but they'll be back. Probably with their friends."

"Where did they go?"

He nodded toward the bartender, now sweeping glass and mopping up spilled pints. "John decided he'd had enough. I'll explain the rest on the way."

He stood without offering me a hand, then turned his back and headed for the door. I got to my feet and grabbed my backpack, now drenched from someone's spilled beer. Great. I slung it over my shoulder regardless, and turned to go.

"You all right?" the bartender asked me once I was steady(ish) on my feet.

"I am," I nodded.

"This isn't a smart place for a woman to come on her own," he said. "You might want to keep that in mind in the future."

"I will," I agreed. "Thank you for stepping in when you did."

He grimaced and nodded wordlessly, then went back to his sweeping.

Oliver was already at the exit, and moved aside with the door open to allow me through first. I stepped outside hurriedly and breathed in the cold air, grateful for the starry sky and the profound quiet that met me.

He walked beside me without saying a word until we were well past hearing range of anyone who might have been lurking outside the Legion.

"Are you all right?" he finally asked. The words came out strangled, his voice tight.

"I'm fine. You got there in time. How did you—"

Before I could ask how he'd known I was there, Oliver wheeled on me. His blue eyes had gone dark, his face strangely pale in the glow of the moon.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" he demanded.

I had to work not to take a step back. "I was thinking I wanted to get out of that house for a few minutes before the Merlyns drove me nuts," I said coldly. "I was thinking that I'm on a quaint little Maine island where everybody knows everybody else and it would be perfectly safe for me to go out, meet the locals, and get some space from the house."

"You're not on a quaint little Maine island – you're on Crab's Neck," he said, almost viciously. "You don't have a clue about this place. There's no police. There's no law. And there are families who have been here just as long as the Merlyns, and there's no love lost between your family and theirs." He was shouting by the end, and anger rushed through me in a wave.

"I didn't know that meant they'd go full caveman on me," I shouted back.

"Someone tried to_ kill you_ three days ago," he said. His face was contorted with rage – if I wasn't so pissed myself, I might be worried he was about to bust a blood vessel or something. "Or have you forgotten that already?"

"No, I haven't forgotten, you asshole. I just thought it was Malcolm or Reggie or someone in the family – I didn't know people I've never met could hate me that much."

"They don't hate you," he said. Three charged seconds passed between us, then four. The fire was gone from his voice when he spoke again, a weariness there instead. "They're afraid of what you being here means, and some of them are a little…unbalanced."

"You think?" I said, my own fight draining away with his. "I kind of got that."

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "The next time you want to get a break from the manor, wait for me and I'll take you somewhere."

"Where?"

"Not the Legion," he said. "Just trust me, all right? I'm supposed to be protecting you – at least meet me halfway on this."

"I never needed protection till I got here."

I was surprised to see him smile at that, though the expression disappeared a millisecond later. "Yeah," he said. "I saw what you did to Brett – that was a nice move. You're a fighter; that's good. It wouldn't have helped you tonight once they all joined in, though. What if I hadn't shown up?"

"The bartender had my back, apparently," I said. "If not, I would have figured something out."

"You know you weren't moving when I got to you?" he asked. His voice softened marginally, catching me off guard. "You were barely breathing, lying there like…" He stopped, and I could see him visibly work to get himself back under control. He ran his hand through his hair again, his gaze locked on mine. "What happened back there, anyway?"

"I told you: he touched me. I don't—"

"Like to be touched," he finished for me impatiently. "I get it. But something happened – something was happening to you. What is it? They ruled out epilepsy, so if these are seizures—"

"How do you know that?" I interrupted.

He looked at me in surprise, and I realized that he'd given away something he hadn't meant to. "I just assumed—"

"No," I said. "Don't lie to me – what you said was way too specific. How do you know doctors ruled out epilepsy?"

He frowned, and I tracked the lies on his face as he debated before ultimately deciding to tell me the truth. "I looked at your file," he said reluctantly. "It was in with Willa's things."

"You _what?"_

"Don't change the subject—"

"I'll change the subject if I feel like it," I shouted. "You had no right to go into my personal physician's things and look at my confidential medical file."

"If I'm supposed to protect you," he said, his voice rising again, "I need to understand who you are: your background, medical history, addictions, bad habits… All of that helps me predict what you're going to do and how I need to react in any given situation. How else am I supposed to learn those things, especially if you're not straight with me?"

"Not by going through my confidential files, you psychopath," I bit out. He huffed an unexpected laugh at that, shaking his head in a way that just made me madder. "How is that funny?"

He tipped his head at me. "Psychopath? Asshole? It's a good thing I have a healthy ego, or I might start to think you didn't like me very much."

"At the moment, you'd be right."

He wet his lips and looked away, serious again. After a second or two, he took a breath and met my eye once more. "Look, I'm sorry. I know this is all new to you, and you didn't ask to be here. But the fact is, you _are_ here. And as long as that's the case, it's my responsibility to keep you safe. It was the last thing your parents asked of me, and I don't take that lightly. That means I will do whatever is necessary to fulfill that request – including following you when you don't want to be followed or going through your records when I feel there are things I need to know that you aren't telling me. You can either get on board with that and start talking to me, or this can continue to be a fight. Either way, as long as you are on this island, I'm not going anywhere."

It was the most I'd heard him say since meeting him – I'd kind of thought Oliver didn't even know that many words. He raised his eyebrows at me, waiting for my response. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away, my own jaw set.

"If you have a question, come to me," I said, finally. "I don't want you looking at my files again – those are personal. I don't even really want Willa looking at them, so I definitely don't want you doing it."

"Understood," he said with a nod, then extended his hand. "So… We have a deal, then? You don't sneak away again, and I talk to you when I have questions."

"And, you give me a little bit of space when I need it."

"Within reason," he said.

I rolled my eyes. "Fine. Within reason."

"Deal."

I reached out, tensed when his hand clasped my own. As had become standard where Oliver was concerned, there were no visions when we touched. Instead, his hand was warm and reassuringly strong in my own. He held on a second too long, our eyes locked, and I thought I saw a storm there, something even the always-cool Oliver Knight hadn't intended to show. Then the look was gone, and I wondered if I'd seen it at all, or if it was just another product of my overactive imagination. I reclaimed my hand, and we walked the rest of the way back to Merlyn Manor in silence.

* * *

_And another chapter done! Review if you have the notion since it's always great motivation, and thanks as ever for reading. _


	9. Chapter 9

_Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far! I know there are lots of questions right now... Unfortunately, you won't get many answers in this chapter - mostly just more questions, and some quality Oliver/Felicity time. Next chapter, however, will definitely start to unravel some of the mystery. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

Thankfully, everyone was in bed when Oliver and I got back to the house after the disaster at the Legion. I stopped Oliver in the dim light of the Merlyn hallway to look at all the cuts and bruises he'd gotten in the fight, but was surprised to find they were already fading.

"It looked worse than it was," he said, dismissing my concern with a shrug. "I'm fine. I heal fast."

Apparently so. I got myself a cup of tea from the kitchen and poured one for Oliver, and from there the two of us parted ways. Despite having technically agreed that I would be more honest with him about what was going on with me when I had my 'episodes,' we hadn't actually had that conversation yet. After everything that had happened, I was grateful he didn't push it. No doubt that was just a temporary reprieve, though; come morning, Oliver would definitely want to know more.

Yay - something else to look forward to.

The next morning, I woke predictably early - I've never been a late sleeper, but that seemed to be taken to the extreme on Crab's Neck. Though it was only five-thirty, the sun just rising, Oliver and Quentin were already in the kitchen when I wandered in. Based on how chipper Quentin was, I was guessing Oliver hadn't filled him in on what had happened the night before. That definitely earned a point in his favor.

"Are you headed out for a walk?" Oliver asked me as I filled my hiking thermos with coffee.

"That was my plan," I agreed. I tried not to look too tense about him coming along – it was his job, after all, and it was past time for me to get over myself and just be grateful he was good at it. How many times did he have to save my butt before I admitted maybe it was nice having him around? "I'll grab your coat when I get mine. Meet you at the door in five?"

Both he and Quentin looked surprised. "Sounds good," he agreed.

At the door four and a half minutes later, he handed me a granola bar and took his jacket from me. I was bundled in the requisite five-plus layers, barely able to move let alone hike, but Oliver didn't look hindered or, frankly, even that layered.

"Your eye looks better," I noted through a mouthful of granola, then paused. I shifted to face him and stood on my toes so we were eye to eye – or nearly, at least. "Whoa. Your eye looks…perfect."

"I told you, I heal fast. And it wasn't that bad."

"It was puffy and bleeding and swollen," I argued. "And kind of disgusting. Nobody but vampires heal that fast." I paused, uncertainty tightening my belly. "Wait. You're not…"

"A vampire?" He laughed out loud. "No, Felicity. I'm not a vampire."

"Of course not," I agreed. "Vampires are definitely not real."

Of course, voices from beyond the grave and bizarrely accurate visions of a past I hadn't experienced were also not supposed to be real.

"Come on," he said, before I could ask anything more. "We should get out before the others wake up, unless you want to be trapped here all day."

"Good point."

We escaped out the back door not long after sunrise and from there wandered the woods and trails, then visited the pond and meadow. The snow was melting fast, and I spotted five fat robins on a bare patch of lawn; heard the intermittent drumbeat of woodpeckers staking out territory in the trees above. Spring was in the air, and I was grateful to be outside and in the middle of it rather than stuck in the manor with the Merlyns.

Despite leaving together, Oliver was soon trailing about twenty paces behind. He was watching me every time I turned around, only to look away the second our eyes met. I knew, of course, that this was his job… Still, it was a little disconcerting. To make up for the awkwardness, I found myself babbling about the plants and the birds, the weather and the water. Anything to make up for his silence.

When we reached the pond, I scanned the area for any sign of a certain oversized black dog and his handsome brown-eyed owner, but Baron and Ray were nowhere in sight. Oliver walked on ahead, seemingly taking in anything and everything. I picked up the pace to keep up with his long strides, and called after him.

"You know," I began, "before we left this morning, you were about to tell me how it was that you had a very swollen black eye and a fat lip before we went to bed last night – separately, I mean," I added hurriedly, in case that was unclear, "and then this morning, you look like no one touched you."

"Was I?" he asked, without breaking his stride or even glancing back at me.

"Oh, come on," I said. I managed to catch up to him, so that we were walking side by side for one rare moment. "You're not a vampire, so what is it? Atomic spider bite? Bizarre, as-yet-undocumented super genes? Alien from outer space?"

He stopped. I pulled up short beside him and looked up, trying to read his face. Not an easy task. "What do you see, when you have one of those episodes like you did last night?" he asked, a challenge in his eyes. I met his gaze, refusing to back down.

"What are you?" I asked.

He held my gaze, unmistakable tumult in his eyes. It was obvious that he knew this was a test – all he had to do was tell me the truth. If he had, I'm almost positive I would have told him anything he wanted to know. Instead, he looked away first.

"Just a man," he said quietly. "That's it, Felicity. I'm just a guy who heals fast."

I couldn't hide my disappointment. "Right. Sure. Well… Those episodes I keep having?" He looked at me again, more intent than I expected. I tipped my chin up, and never looked away. "They're nothing. I just go blank. That's it."

My own disappointment was reflected in his eyes. He nodded. "Okay. Well… If it ends up one of these days that it's not nothing? Do me a favor, and come to me."

"Sure," I said, but I couldn't look him in the eye when I said it. The weight of the lies lay heavy between us. I looked around the pond, longing for an interruption – for Ray to appear, possibly with an explanation for even a fraction of what was happening right now.

"Come on," Oliver said, surprising me.

"Where to?"

"Just come on," he said. "You're looking for Palmer, right?"

I blushed. "What? No – of course not. I barely know the man."

"You're a terrible liar, Felicity. Just come with me. He's home, I'm sure."

My eyes widened. "We can't just barge in—"

"I wasn't planning on barging in. I figured we'd knock first." He met my gaze again, an expression I couldn't read in his blue eyes. "If it's you, he won't care. Trust me." The way he said it, I wasn't sure it was meant as a good thing.

Half an hour later, we were scaling a steep granite incline, Oliver several paces ahead of me. I took my time, enjoying the movement and the sights and the taste of the ocean in the air.

"You okay?" he asked as we approached what looked like it must be the summit. Oliver, I noticed, hadn't broken a sweat and was barely winded. I had taken off my parka and stuffed it in my day pack when we first got started, and I was huffing and puffing like an asthmatic freight train.

"I'm fine," I said. Well, panted. It wasn't like I had never climbed a mountain before – I'd climbed lots of them, as a matter of fact, most of them a lot bigger than the peak on Crab's Neck. I couldn't figure out why this one was taking so much out of me. "How much farther?"

"Just the top of that hill there," he said, nodding up ahead. "Are you sure you're all right? We could rest. You're looking a little…flushed."

"I told you, I'm fine," I said. I took a minute just the same, though, and looked down on the roiling sea far below us. The ocean was dark today, topped with white caps that I could hear even this high up. I managed a deep, shuddering breath, and immediately felt better.

"There's no shame in needing to stop occasionally, you know."

"Says the man who never, ever stops."

"It's not the same for me," he said grimly.

I rolled my eyes, and was about to argue that point but stopped when my focus shifted to an ancient spruce tree that seemed to spring from the cliffside overlooking the water. At sight of a nest made of sticks high up in the tree, my pulse ticked up a notch – okay, it ticked up three notches. "Whoa. Do you see that?"

He stepped closer, following my pointing finger. "What?"

"That nest. That can't… Whoa. Hang on." I forgot all about Oliver or Ray Palmer or voices from beyond, scrambling closer to the tree with binoculars in hand to get a better look.

"Felicity, what are you—"

"Oh my God," I said, still on the move. "This is huge – do you know how huge this is?"

I could hear Oliver scrambling to keep up with me, but I paid no attention. "Felicity! Wait, damn it!"

"I swear, that's the nest of a great black hawk. Which is impossible, because you don't usually find them anywhere but Central and South America. One was spotted in Maine a couple of years ago, and that pretty much blew everyone's minds. But that – that's a nest. And…" I took off my glasses and put the binoculars to my eyes, training the sights on the nest. Was that…? "I think there's an egg in there. Which means there's a breeding couple on this island."

I spun where I stood to face Oliver. Suddenly, a gust of wind rose up off the water and I felt...how do I explain this? I'm not sure I can without sounding completely insane. But something that felt exactly like an invisible hand wrapped around my ankle, and pulled me off my feet. I was on an incline, which meant gravity was already not in my favor; a sheet of ice just below the snow didn't help the situation. I caught a glimpse of the ocean far, far below us, and my stomach lurched. Suddenly, I was careening down the mountainside, the cliff's edge so close that I could feel cold air rising from the pounding surf below. I struck out blindly for something to hang onto, but I was moving too fast.

I hit my head at some point, jarring loose the voices that had lived with me day in and day out for years. The girls shouted; Rose laughed. I looked up to the gray sky overhead, and saw Oliver racing through the trees to get to me. He definitely wasn't a superhero – at least, not one that was super-fast or able to fly, since he was running the same way the rest of us mortals run. Well… He looked better than most mortals, and he had better footwork. But still, essentially human.

That was the last thought I had before I cracked the back of my skull on a rock, then hit a slight incline that had me airbound for an instant before something caught hold of me. Some_one_ caught hold of me. Oliver's hand closed around my wrist, and he pulled me to him. We rolled together for a couple of turns before the world finally went still.

My eyes were shut tight, but when I realized I wasn't moving anymore, I opened one cautiously. I was lying on something hard-but-soft – like a firm mattress, but with more muscle. Oliver. I opened the other eye, and gazed down at him. He actually had the decency to be out of breath for once.

"Ow," I said.

He rubbed his eyebrow, as though he had a headache. Which he may have – there was a smear of blood on his temple, and it had been a hell of a ride down the mountain. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," I said. My head was spinning, my stomach definitely on the wrong side of right. I attributed my unwillingness to move to those things, and not to the fact that Oliver was beneath me in a very male, very…Oliver way, his blue eyes intent on mine. "Sorry about the…well. The bird's nest…"

He rolled his eyes and huffed a laugh at me, part relief and part pure frustration. "Yeah, I get it. Rare birds. Still, if you could maybe watch where you're going next time…"

"It wasn't that - I didn't trip, I..."

"You what?" he asked.

Right. I what, indeed? Felt a ghost hand that yanked me off my feet and threw me down the mountain? I shook my head. "Forget it. I'll be more careful, I promise. I hate to think what would have happened if you weren't here to fall for."

Something about that didn't sound right, but it took my brain a second before everything processed. Once it had, I felt my eyes widen. Oh, crap. "On. You weren't here to fall _on_ – not for. I did not mean fall for – that would be ridiculous."

He frowned at that, which made everything a thousand times worse. "Not that it would be ridiculous for someone to fall for you – I mean, obviously," I babbled, talking at approximately the same rate that I'd been falling just a minute before. "You're…well. Forget it, I'm not going there. But you – clearly, someone would fall for you. And probably has. Lots of someones. Just not…this…someone."

He sighed again, dropping his head back so that it hit the ground with a slight _thunk_. "Felicity."

"I'll stop talking now."

"That would probably be good."

He shifted his head to a more comfortable position and looked up at me, his gaze steady. I was suddenly more aware than ever of his body beneath me – more muscle than I'd even imagined at first, a power there that felt primal and masculine and very…good. Oliver felt very good, his body against mine like that.

"I should get up," I said.

"Yes," he agreed.

Neither of us moved.

He reached up and pushed a strand of hair back from my face, tucking it behind my ear. His eyes seemed bluer somehow – darker. "You lost your glasses," he noted.

"Yeah. I was holding them but…my guess is they're in a thousand pieces somewhere up the mountain by now."

"But you're all right?" he said, his voice softer now. He ran the back of his hand down my cheek, the worry line back in his forehead. He felt like heaven beneath me, but there was something in his eyes that suggested there was a war waging somewhere within.

"I am," I said. "Thanks to you. Again."

I should be freaking out right now, I realized. Historically when I was this close to someone, bad things happened: brain-melting visions, an onslaught of voices so intense that they drowned out the rest of the world for hours afterward. Instead, it was just the two of us: Oliver, and me. Our eyes held for another second or two before I felt Oliver tense beneath me, the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow nearby at the same time.

"I thought I heard someone out here," Ray Palmer said. He held up my glasses. "Did someone lose these?"

Oliver did some kind of Ninja move where he hopped up with me still kind of…on him, set me on my feet, and came to stand himself an instant later. When he was done we stood about five feet apart, my cheeks flaming.

"Those are mine!" I said. I took them from Ray quickly, noting that there were some new scratches to add to the other new scratches I'd gotten the other day. I should probably get a couple of back-up pairs if life was going to be this rocky out on Crab's Neck. "Thank you. I fell," I added by way of explanation.

"Did you?" Ray said. He cast a deliberate glance toward Oliver, and Oliver looked away. "I'm glad you're all right – it can be dangerous out here."

"I got excited – there's a hawk's nest here, you know. A great black hawk, basically unheard of around here."

"Felicity wanted to see the house," Oliver said, interrupting me before I could get fully into ramble mode.

Ray smiled. There was still something cloaked about him, almost dangerous, but it vanished a second later – so suddenly that I was sure I'd imagined it. "Well, the lady should get what she wants," he said to Oliver. "Thank you for bringing her."

Oliver offered no reply, instead turning his back on both of us and heading back up the mountainside toward the house. Ray offered his hand, but I shook my head. I'd managed to stay in the here and now for most of the morning rather than being thrown back to the past – I wasn't ready to let go of that yet.

"I'm okay," I said. "Go on ahead. I'll follow."

He studied me a moment with those warm, familiar brown eyes. _What am I going to do with you, Rose?_ I heard the Ray of old ask. The past flickered in my mind's eye like some old black-and-white film: Ray and Rose, dancing.

"That's all right," Ray said. "I'd prefer to walk with you. You can tell me about this rare bird of yours."

And so I did. Oliver was already out of sight, vanished up the mountainside without so much as a backward glance. It made me feel slightly better that he had so much faith in Ray; if Oliver thought I was in any danger, I couldn't imagine him just leaving me to a stranger. Still, I couldn't help but feel a little bit… abandoned by him – and irritated with myself for feeling that way at all.

Ray and I reached the summit without incident this time, Ray listening intently while I described the great black hawk and the nest and the projects I hoped to start on Merlyn land as soon as the ground had thawed and the weather was a little more predictable. I pulled up short when his house came into view, however. I'd thought it was impressive from the bottom of Crab's Neck, but that was nothing compared to the view up close.

"Wow," was the most I could manage.

"You like it?" Ray asked, far more earnest than I'd expected.

"How could I not? I mean… It's amazing." And it really was. Made of glass, granite, and steel, it fit its surroundings in a way I never would have imagined from a distance. The view from the massive windows out onto the water below must be incredible. "Who designed it?" I asked, once I was feeling slightly more coherent.

"That would be me," he said. I looked at him in surprise. We weren't talking some DIY pre-fab project here; the Palmer estate was a sophisticated design that married a keen understanding of physics and geometry with a deep respect for the island and all it stood for.

"Seriously? You must have had help, though," I insisted. "I mean, come on. You're, what, twenty-eight years old? And from what I've read, you have no formal degrees—"

He raised his eyebrows, a pleased, almost shy smile touching his lips. _I think you're brilliant, Ray Palmer,_ I heard Rose whisper through time.

"So, you've been reading about me?"

"What? No. I mean – possibly, a little bit, but only because—"

"That's all right," he reassured me. "I did a little checking up on you, too."

"On me?" That thought sent a bolt of dread through me. Oliver had gotten my medical records from Willa – he wouldn't have shared those with Ray, though…would he?

"Relax, Felicity," Ray reassured me. "I found only good things – though precious little of that. You've stayed off the radar to an impressive degree for a woman in the digital age."

"And you haven't stayed off at all," I returned. Which was true. It turned out that Video Game Development really undersold Ray, who had created a line of popular video games revolving around a trio of jewel thieves in the 1920s. "You have whole websites devoted to you, you know. And your game are everywhere."

"So you've heard of them?"

"Only after I googled you," I admitted. "I'm not really a video game kind of girl."

His smile widened, endearing and surprisingly boyish. "Well, let's see if we can change that." He nodded toward his house of glass and granite. "Come on. I'll give you the grand tour."

He started to take my arm, but just then Oliver emerged from the house with Baron alongside. The Newfie bounded toward me, saving me from the awkwardness of having to shy away from Ray.

"Make yourself at home, Oliver," Ray said dryly. Oliver had a mug of something steaming in his hands, and looked marginally more relaxed than he had when Ray first found us.

"I have, thanks," Oliver said. He smiled at his friend with what seemed like genuine warmth, but there was something beneath it. Wariness, I thought. He might like Ray, but I suddenly wasn't nearly as sure as I had been that Oliver actually trusted him. The realization made me uneasy.

Ray went to the door and held it open for me, motioning me through. I crossed the threshold, while Oliver and Ray remained just outside. The silence between the two men was heavy, laden with tension.

"I'm just going to take Baron for a walk," Oliver announced, to my surprise. He turned to look at me, now inside the house while he was still on the doorstep. "Just call if you need anything, Felicity. I won't be far."

"Oh. Uh… Okay, sure. I'll see you in a while then, I guess." I had the sudden, unpleasant feeling that he'd brought me here specifically to deliver me to Ray, and I didn't like it. I frowned at him. Oliver hesitated, the mask that had fallen when Ray came on the scene lifting for an instant.

"You'll be fine," he reassured me. "I'll be right outside."

"All right," I agreed, only slightly more at ease now.

Ray closed the door once Oliver had gone, and we were alone.

To be honest, I expected to be afraid once it was just the two of us, or at least feel some kind of anxiety. Instead, Ray looked at me with those eyes that always seemed to be searching for something, and a surprising peace descended. He wasn't a stranger; I knew this man. I'd known him longer than just about anyone in my life.

The way he was looking at me combined with the visions in my head and the overwhelm of the morning made it impossible to hold still for long, however. I looked away first, focusing instead on the house. To be fair, it wasn't a hard house to focus on.

Open concept with polished granite floors and light flooding in from every direction, it was a design fit for _Architectural Digest_. The first floor was completely open, with two subsequent floors built with long corridors that formed a U around the perimeter, providing unimpeded sun from a massive skylight on the roof.

"There's a backup generator, but I rarely use it," Ray explained. "Solar is pretty reliable up here, even on cloudy days."

"I bet. You could power half the island – all of it, I bet, if you set up the right kind of array. What do you do with the excess electricity?"

"I've got a good-sized battery, so storage isn't a problem. There's a gas-powered generator, but I haven't had to use it for a couple of years."

"Nice. What kind of battery?"

He kind of smiled at that, eyebrows going up in a way that seemed familiar. "Do you want to see?"

Naturally, I agreed immediately, and followed him to the basement with my mind whirling with possibilities. I owned half this island - or I would, if I could just survive this year. If Ray and I teamed up, and I somehow got the other residents of Crab's Neck on my side, we could get the whole place off fossil fuel in as little as two to three years. And if we instituted a couple of programs that actually took carbon out of the atmosphere - kelp farming was a possibility, I thought - then we wouldn't just be a net-zero community... We could actually make a difference, and provide a model for other small communities like this one.

The basement was just as well built as the rest of Ray's zillion-dollar estate, lined with spray foam insulation and impressively dry. I quizzed him on the type of insulation he'd used and then asked about a dozen follow-up questions before the conversation shifted to thermal windows and heat pumps as Ray walked me through the rest of the house. Nearly forty-five minutes had gone by and I'd barely noticed when Oliver returned with Baron.

"Everything going okay?" Oliver asked once he was through the door. Baron made a beeline for me, and I greeted him with happy hugs while he in turn slobbered all over my jeans.

"It is," Ray confirmed. "Though I have to say, most of my guests just want to see the view. We haven't even made it that far."

"Yeah, well... Felicity isn't most people," Oliver said, with what sounded remarkably like affection in his voice. Or at least, not overt contempt. I looked up to find him watching me with Baron, that barest trace of a rare smile on his face. If he kept this up, I might start to think Oliver Knight actually liked me.

"Apparently not," Ray said. He hesitated, then nodded toward the skylight. "Did you want to see the view now?"

"We should get going soon," Oliver said, his customary frown returning. "I'm sure everyone's up by now, waiting for you."

"In a minute," I said, then turned back to Ray. We were in his immaculate stainless steel chef's kitchen, with a breathtaking view over the water. "Yeah - though I don't see how the view can get much better than this. From where I'm standing, this is pretty spectacular."

"Just wait," Ray said, with a grin. He led the way to a wrought-iron spiral staircase that seemed to climb straight to the heavens.

"Where does this lead, exactly?" I asked.

"Up," Ray said. When I rolled my eyes, he added, "I built a crow's nest at the top of the house - a bedroom with a 360-degree view of the island." He studied me, that intensity I'd seen earlier suddenly back as he gestured toward the stairs. "I think you'll like it."

_I'll own this view someday, Rose, _I heard Past Ray say. Rose looked at him. They were outside, on a peak overlooking the ocean - _this _peak, I quickly realized. They were younger in this vision, Rose just a teenager and Ray maybe a few years older than her.

_And how do you propose to do that, Mr. Palmer? _she asked, teasing him.

His intensity then matched that of Present Ray, and I felt his touch as he cupped Rose's cheek. _For you, I'll find a way. The Palmers may not have much, but we're resourceful. If it meant you'd stay with me, I'd drop the moon and stars at your feet. _

The vision faded and I was back in Ray's house, at the foot of the spiral stairs with Ray and Oliver watching me intently. "I'm okay," i said, before either man could ask. My head pounded, the past still echoing inside my skull.

"All right, that's it," Oliver said, anger simmering in his voice. "We need to get back. Come on, Felicity."

"One minute, please," Ray said. "We'll be done shortly." The glare he turned on Oliver surprised me, mostly because up till that point he had been so pleasant. A charged silence followed between them before Oliver nodded, his jaw so tight I was afraid he'd crack a tooth.

"Fine. But don't be long."

"Of course," Ray said, then turned to me with that million-watt smile again. "Ready?"

I shook my head, stepping away from both men. "Actually, no. Not at all."

"What do you-" Ray began, but I cut him off.

"This thing that's going on between the two of you-" I gestured with a wave between the two men, "-whatever it is, the weird 'Look, Mr. Palmer, at the pretty young virgin I've delivered'-" I blushed, cursing inwardly. "Not that I'm a virgin. Obviously - I'm twenty-two. There are no twenty-two-year-old virgins anymore."

"Felicity-" Oliver began.

I held up my hand to keep him quiet, and took a breath. "No - don't tell me that I'm imagining things. I've spent my whole life with people telling me all this stuff is in my head, and it turns out most of it wasn't in my head at all - or it was, but it wasn't there because I have a great imagination. And this...whatever-it-is you two have going that feels a lot like you're preparing me for some kind of ritual sacrifice...just knock it off already, okay? Because if you're _not _preparing me for a ritual sacrifice, you really need to work on the way the two of you interact with women when you're together."

I ran out of breath and words at roughly the same time, and drew up short. Oliver had that hint of a smile going again, which only served to piss me off because it felt a lot like he was laughing at me. Ray, on the other hand, didn't look amused at all. He took a step toward me.

"Felicity," he began, "I really am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. It was the very last thing I wanted to do, I promise." He took another step, until we were close enough to touch. He reached out. A wave of fear ran through me; I backed away.

He didn't stop, though.

Instead, his hand closed around my arm with surprising strength.

"Let go," I said, through the rush of voices and images, smells and tastes and sensations so strong that they threatened to swamp me where I stood. He didn't let go, though. Instead, he took hold of my other arm, his eyes on mine.

"Ray!" Oliver shouted.

"I need to know what you're seeing," Ray said to me. _You're mine, Rose, _the old Ray said. _Now and forever. _A little girl screamed. I smelled the surf, felt the wind in my hair. The present disappeared, in the blink of an eye.

* * *

_Phew! This turned out to be a bear of a chapter. Sorry for the cliffy here, but I promise you'll be getting some answers in the next installment. Thanks as ever for reading, and don't forget to drop a line with your thoughts if you have the notion! _


	10. Chapter 10

**_A reminder of where we left things in The Haunting, last chapter:_**

_"Felicity," Ray began, "I really am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. It was the very last thing I wanted to do, I promise." He took another step, until we were close enough to touch. He reached out. A wave of fear ran through me; I backed away._

_He didn't stop, though._

_Instead, his hand closed around my arm with surprising strength._

_"Let go," I said, through the rush of voices and images, smells and tastes and sensations so strong that they threatened to swamp me where I stood. He didn't let go, though. Instead, he took hold of my other arm, his eyes on mine._

_"Ray!" Oliver shouted._

_"I need to know what you're seeing," Ray said to me. _You're mine, Rose, _the old Ray said._Now and forever._A little girl screamed. I smelled the surf, felt the wind in my hair. The present disappeared, in the blink of an eye._

* * *

**Chapter 10**

_I can't stay here, Ray,_ Rose pleaded. She was sixteen. I don't know how I knew that – I just did._ They'll never approve of you, and Daddy will never let me go. Not when he's convinced he can't paint without me._

_You're his daughter,_ Ray replied viciously. They were outside, on a peak overlooking the water. _He can't hold you prisoner, make you carry the weight of his art on your shoulders._

_I just want to go away._ She was crying, despair all but choking the air from my lungs. _The paintings Daddy sold – men look at me like they know me, like they've seen some piece of my soul._

Ray gathered her in his arms, and I felt his warmth and Rose's love until suddenly, in an instant, the vision was gone.

In the next second, I was back in the bar - the 1920s bar, held down with a monster looming above me and Ray fighting, desperate to get to me. I could smell the sweat and whiskey of the man above me, and thrashed harder when I felt others in the room help pry my legs apart.

I struck out blindly, trying to escape the terror living inside my head. And then, as suddenly as they visions had started, they just…stopped. I opened my eyes to find Oliver beside me and Ray on the floor, hand to his face as blood coursed from his nose.

"You're okay, Felicity," Oliver said, his voice hoarse. The room spun, and it was pretty clear at that point that he was wrong.

I was anything but okay.

As if to confirm that theory, I stumbled where I stood, the world tilting dangerously. My vision tunneled, my breath coming in gasps. I was vaguely aware of Oliver catching me before I hit the floor - and then, there was nothing.

* * *

"What the hell were you thinking?" Oliver demanded in a whispered growl. Time had passed, but I had no idea how much. I was lying down, a blanket over me and my head pounding. I kept my eyes shut tight, not ready to let him and Ray know I was among the living once more. "You could have killed her—"

"I wasn't going to kill her," Ray said. "You need to stop treating her with kid gloves, though, or she _will_ wind up dead. She's living on borrowed time as it is. You know that."

"What about a protection spell?" Oliver asked. My mind stumbled on that, but I fought not to react. As long as they thought I was still out, maybe I would actually get some answers.

"Willa's already got every protection spell in the book working now," Ray said. "They're no match against Dahrk's magic, you know that. She's twenty-two – that's two years longer than any of them were supposed to live. Now that Dahrk knows she's here, though, her only chance at survival is Rose."

"But you can't just steamroll her into accessing those memories," Oliver protested. "She isn't Rose—"

"You think I don't know that?" Ray all but snarled, the pleasant façade gone. "I'm well aware that she isn't Rose Merlyn – but Rose is in there."

A warm, wet tongue on my face – Baron's, obviously – made feigning unconsciousness any longer impossible. I pushed the dog away and risked opening my eyes.

I was on a butter-soft leather sofa in Ray's living room, sunlight blinding me. Ray was seated in a leather armchair opposite me, his nose puffy and a trickle of blood trailing down one nostril. Oliver stood, tension radiating off him.

"Felicity—" Ray began. I stopped him with a glare.

"Don't. Whatever you were going to say, save it." I turned to Oliver, still seething. "You either. Neither of you say a word." I struggled to my feet, my stomach swooping and swirling every step of the way.

"Give yourself a minute," Oliver said.

I closed my eyes and clutched the arm of the sofa for support. "I'm going home."

"I'll walk you," Oliver said.

"Not home as in the Merlyn estate, you jerk," I said coldly. My eyes swam with tears. _She's living on borrowed time as it is. _That's what Ray had just said, wasn't it? "I'm going back to Portland. Tonight."

I managed to make my way out the door without falling and cracking my head open - though at the moment, my head already kind of felt like it was well and truly cracked. Outside, I blinked in the glare of the late-morning sun, and took a deep breath. Ray's front door opened and closed behind me, and I closed my eyes and focused on breathing.

"Were you ever going to tell me?" I asked Oliver. And it was Oliver - I knew it without looking, knew it in that bone-deep way that I know which plants will grow where, or what direction to turn for true north. Right now, I knew instinctively that Oliver was already there; he was true north.

And he had lied.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

"That's not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "I don't know what to say. How much did you here, between Ray and me?"

"Borrowed time, protection spells, accessing Rose's memories..."

"So all of it," he concluded, sounding miserable. I turned on him, too weak and tired to muster much fire.

"What does it all mean, though?" I asked. "How can I have the memories of an ancestor who was born over a century ago? Or the other girls?"

"That's what you see, then?" he asked cautiously, like the question might trip a landmine.

"I see all of them," I said. "Every Merlyn girl born with the butterfly birthmark - all of whom died some horrible, tragic, early death." I looked at him, searching his face. "And you brought me back for that. Does Quentin know? And Willa?"

The look on Oliver's face - pure, unadulterated guilt and self-loathing - told me that they did. I fought more useless tears, the world spinning beneath my feet.

"So, what... You all brought me here to watch me die?"

"No," Oliver said. He shook his head vigorously. "We brought you here to save you. This curse-"

I held up my hand. Forced myself to some kind of even state of mind, if there was such a thing considering what Oliver was telling me. "Hang on, okay? Start at the beginning. What curse?"

"Do you think you can walk and talk?" he asked. When I looked doubtful, he said, "I'll be right with you. I won't let you fall again, Felicity."

His eyes were soft, dark, depthless blue. Maybe I'm a fool, but I believed him.

We started out slow, but soon the cool, fresh air worked its magic and I started to feel like myself again. Or as much like myself as possible considering that I'd just learned I was doomed to die because of some mysterious ancient curse and apparently the only thing that could save me were visions that may or may not make my brain implode. Oliver was even quieter than usual, waiting to take his cue from me. We were halfway down the mountain before I could figure out which questions to ask to get things rolling.

"Who is Damian Dahrk?"

Oliver was walking beside me, on a narrow trail crusted with the last remnants of winter snow. He paused, but only for a second.

"He's a billionaire in Scotland. Inverness."

"Where Willa is from?"

"And me," Oliver said. I looked at him in surprise. "I left a long time ago, though."

"How long?" I challenged. He didn't answer, and when I glanced at him, I could tell he was trying to figure out how to frame the answer. "Okay, fine - we'll come back to that question. How does Dahrk figure into any of this? Did he curse the whole family because of something Rose did? When? And why? And how does he know I'm here now?"

Oliver stopped walking and looked at me. His expression was enough to tell me I needed to slow down.

"Right," I said. "Sorry, too many questions. I'm just having a hard time figuring out where to start."

"Understandably," he agreed. "But maybe if you just let me tell the story..."

I nodded. "Go ahead. Tell me what's happening to me."

He nodded, his gaze as serious as ever. "I'll try."

He started walking once more, and I hurried to catch up. It was ten a.m., a beautiful sunny day to be outside on the island. I let the calm of that world wash over me as Oliver started his story.

"Rose was the youngest of three children," Oliver began, "and Byron Merlyn's only daughter. she was doted on - a little spoiled according to most counts, but a bright, beautiful girl-"

"She was Byron's model in a lot of his paintings. I know they're considered masterpieces, but if you ask me they're a little creepy."

"Agreed," Oliver said. "Rose felt the same, and was looking for a way to escape. She met Raymond Palmer the First here on the island when she was fourteen and he was seventeen. Two years later, they ran away together."

None of this was surprising so far - I'd known Rose ran away, and she had clearly been with Ray in my visions when they were a little older. "Where did they go?" I asked.

"All over. The war had just ended - this was 1918 - and there was a freedom about things, a recklessness to that time that I think appealed to them both." He paused, drawing up short. I got the sense he was sifting through the story, trying to pick out the most relevant threads.

"Eventually," he finally continued, "they ended up in Europe. Ray's father had a lived a little...outside the law." I looked at Oliver sharply. Now this, I hadn't known. "As a teenager, Ray was sent to Crab's Neck to stay with his grandparents when his father went to prison-"

"For what?" I interrupted.

Oliver glanced at me. "Theft, I think. Petty stuff, but they weren't very forgiving about that kind of thing back then."

"I guess not."

_You don't deserve to live this way, Rose,_ the old Ray - Ray Palmer the First, apparently - said. In the picture in my mind, he and Rose were in a rundown flat that smelled like garbage, a bowl of watery soup on the table and both of them in threadbare clothes. _You don't **have** to live like this. Just one job..._

"Ray followed in his father's footsteps," I said out loud. Oliver looked at me in surprise. "You saw that in the visions?"

"Just now," I said. His brow furrowed, an unspoken question between us. "Sometimes, I get whole 'episodes,'" I quirked my fingers in air quotes. "That usually happens when someone touches me."

"Does it hurt?" Oliver asked.

"Sometimes. Not always, but I usually get a headache, and I almost always lose time. I'll wake up an hour, sometimes even a day later, and all I'll remember is the vision."

"But they aren't triggered just by touch," Oliver guessed.

"No. I get flashes that can be triggered by a smell, something someone says, the place where I'm traveling... Most of the time when that happens, though, it's fast - the blink of an eye and then, poof, I'm back again."

He flashed a quick smile. "Poof, huh? Somehow I doubt it's that easy."

"It can be," I said honestly. I paused, refocusing to get us back on track. "So, Ray was a thief. And Rose was okay with that?"

"Not at first, I guess," Oliver said. "But eventually..."

_What about this one? _Rose asked, the vision appearing so suddenly I stumbled on the path. The forest disappeared once more. The accommodations this time were a lot more luxe than in the last vision - a hotel suite with elegant draperies at the windows and an impressive spread of food at a table overlooking what I thought might be Paris.

Rose sat at the table with a newspaper, Ray across from her. She was looking at the society pages; specifically, a black and white photo of a woman wearing an elegant gown, a glass of champagne in her hand. The caption read, "Princess Mary to visit Paris."

_A royal?_ Ray asked. _She's higher profile than we usually do._

_But look at that diamond, _Rose said. She indicated the necklace around the princess's neck, pushing the newspaper toward Ray.

"They started doing the jobs together," I said aloud, pulling myself from the vision.

Oliver stared at me. "These flashes that you get - can you control them? Think about a specific moment and go to that?"

"No, they're random." He looked disappointed, so I amended, "I mean - the trigger usually determines what the vision will be. So I guess if I wanted to access a particular memory, I could use a specific trigger to try and get there." I hesitated. "But I keep interrupting, just when things are getting good. Sorry. I'll try to keep from flashing you again. I mean-"

"I know what you mean, Felicity," Oliver said, a smile in his voice. He took a deep breath, and any trace of humor vanished as he continued.

The more he told, the harder it was to believe. According to Oliver, Ray and Rose became notorious jewel thieves while they were in Europe - without anyone in the States having any idea what either of them was doing. They traveled across the globe, choosing targets based mostly on Rose's whim.

"And then they met Helena Dahrk at a party in Inverness," Oliver continued. He grew distant, almost like he was back there himself. "She was...something. Beautiful, mysterious - and very powerful. I don't really know what happened between them, but for some reason Rose didn't take to her."

Something about the way he said that made me think I wasn't getting the whole story on this count.

"Maybe she was jealous," I said.

He got quiet for a second. "I couldn't say. But for whatever reason, Rose had it in for Helena. Her father was head of a powerful family in Inverness - highly feared at the time. They still are today, actually. Definitely not the kind of people you want to cross. Unfortunately, Rose didn't care. Whatever her motivation might have been, she chose Helena as their next mark."

I winced. "Crap. Bad idea."

"Very bad idea," Oliver agreed. Merlyn Manor was in view now, but Oliver stopped in the glade just outside rather than going in. He sat on a fallen log, more pensive than ever - which was saying something for Oliver. I took a seat beside him, watching as his eyes grew distant again.

"Helena had a necklace - a beautiful piece, handed down for generations. Actually, two pieces. A black opal nested in amethyst, carved in the shape of a butterfly."

I thought of the butterfly-shaped birthmark on Rose's neck - the one I had seen in the painting. My stomach tightened. "Rose had the butterfly birthmark," I said. _That necklace was made for me, Ray, _I heard her say, an echo through time.

"She did," Oliver said, grim now. "Like you. So, she and Ray decided taking this necklace would be their _piece de resistance;_ the heist to end all heists."

"I'm guessing it didn't go as planned."

"No. They got the necklace, but then Rose and Ray got separated during the getaway. They each took a piece of the pendant on the necklace - Ray had the amethyst, and Rose had the black opal butterfly. The two were supposed to meet at the train station that night."

"But Rose didn't show up?" I asked.

_Please don't let me die, Oliver, _I remembered her saying. Except...what did Oliver have to do with any of this?

"She showed up," Oliver said. His eyes had gone dark. He stared into the middle distance, completely lost. "But no one really knows what happened after they got separated. When she got to the train station, she was wounded - stabbed, and bleeding out fast. The butterfly was gone, and Damian Dahrk was there waiting for her and Ray."

"Oh no," I whispered.

"Exactly. Ray gave up his part of the necklace immediately, but Rose didn't have the butterfly anymore, and she died before she could tell anyone what she did with it."

"What did Damian do?"

"Cursed them - the entire Merlyn family line. Every generation, another daughter bearing the butterfly would be born; every generation, she would die young, until the butterfly was returned to the Dahrk family."

"They still haven't been able to find it, after all this time?"

"No." Oliver shook his head slightly, pulling himself out of the story. "They've looked everywhere, questioned everyone, but it's just...gone."

"And Ray thinks if he can access the memories I have of Rose's life, I might be able to lead him to the butterfly," I guessed.

"It's the only way to break the curse."

I fell silent, and studied him in profile - his jaw set, eyes still haunted. "There's a question I'm not asking," I said after a few seconds.

Oliver looked at me. "What the Ray from then has to do with the Ray Palmer you know," he guessed. I nodded. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw, and I could tell that he was considering lying - that he was weighing half-truths, thinking about how they would land.

"That's not my story to tell," he finally said. "I think you and Ray should have a conversation about that."

I started to tell him that I knew it wasn't completely Ray's story - that I had seen Oliver there too, or at least some Scottish version of Oliver. Before I could, Oliver looked past me and stood.

"There you are," Malcolm said, a combination of exasperation and unease in his voice. "We couldn't hold breakfast any longer, but Quentin said there were some things you wanted to speak with the family about. Something having to do with the grounds...?"

I stood hastily, barely able to focus on the present after all I'd just learned - and all I still wanted to know.

"Uh - yeah, I have. Or I do - have things to talk about, I mean. Can you just give me a minute?"

"We've already given you hours," Malcolm said coldly. "You two may have nothing to do but traipse around the island all day - or whatever it is you're doing - but Reggie and I have business to attend to. If you want to talk to us, now would be the time."

"We can finish our conversation later," Oliver said smoothly. "We should go in for now, so you can talk to your family."

Reluctantly, I agreed.

* * *

_And there you have it... A few answers, at least. Thanks as ever for reading, and don't forget to leave a review if you have the notion - I can't tell you how much the reviews I've gotten so far mean, and I'm so pleased people are intrigued by the story. See you next chapter!_


	11. Chapter 11

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," Malcolm said, looking in confusion at a series of sketches I'd laid out on the dining room table after the family had eaten a tense, endless lunch together. "You want to put what in our old gardens?"

"Milkweed," I said patiently. "For the monarch butterflies. And ragweed—"

"But those are weeds," he said. He looked at Tommy, giving up on me as hopeless. "Doesn't she know those are weeds? It's right there in the name. Didn't they teach her about that in school?"

"They did," I said evenly, "and _she_ is right here, and would be grateful if you stopped talking about her like she wasn't. I know all about weeds. Some of them are invasive; most can be controlled easily enough, and some – like milkweed – are vital for the survival of species whose numbers have declined dangerously in recent years. All I want is to put in a butterfly meadow, over here."

I pointed to the map. I had made a decision, sometime between first hearing Oliver's story and midway through that nightmare Merlyn family luncheon. I could run back to Oregon or I could be miserable here, in either case terrified about a fate I wasn't sure I had any control over, _or_ I could take advantage of whatever time I had on this island. I could do what I'd set out to do, and make the three hundred acres now in my possession everything I'd always dreamed of.

Now, I planned to do exactly that. I just hoped I could get Malcolm and the rest of the family on board. If I couldn't… Well. The place was mine for the next year, and there wasn't much they could do about that.

"I also want to work with the locals on instituting some more sustainable fishing practices," I said. "I've been studying up on the issues facing Maine fishermen right now, and obviously the declining numbers of traditional stock are a big problem. There are some innovative programs designed to help people in the state who are interested in certain kinds of aquaculture, however - specifically kelp farming and some shellfish. That could be a great opportunity."

"Good luck with that," Malcolm said. "Crab's Neck residents have no use for the Merlyn family, as I believe you discovered last night. You try to change the way they've done business for the past two hundred years, and it's not going to end well for you."

"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," I said. "Right now, the Merlyn grounds are the first thing to tackle, clearly."

"My parents spent a lot of money making this place extraordinary," Reggie said. He'd been quiet since my return. Now, looking at him, it occurred to me that he was having even less fun with Malcolm and Tommy than I was. "When Moira and I were growing up here, it was like paradise."

"I'm sure it was," I said. "But that was a long time ago. No one has done anything but take a couple of passes with a lawn mower for the past twenty-five years. That's actually an incredible opportunity, though. I can make this place amazing again."

"Well, it's yours, isn't it?" Tommy asked. He had a gin and tonic in hand, and I knew that it wasn't his first - or even his fourth - of the day. "Why bother even asking? Just do it. When you leave, we can put it back the way we want it if it's really that horrible." He shrugged, looking at Malcolm. "Frankly, I don't see what the big deal is – let her plant what she wants."

"The big deal is, she has no idea what Merlyn Manor is about," Malcolm said coldly. "She has no idea the kind of history housed in these walls, or on these grounds."

"Malcolm," Reggie said, and I was surprised to hear warning in his tone.

"Oh, please," Malcolm said impatiently. "You don't want her here any more than I do – considerably less, I would think, since this place would have gone to you if she wasn't in the picture. I have no intention of going along with these insane plans just because she's asking nicely."

"I'm not asking, actually," I said. "I'm just… I think it would be better if everyone were on the same page. I don't want you to feel like I just dropped out of the sky and took over something that's important to you."

"But that's exactly what you did," Tommy pointed out. "I mean, let's be honest. We had plans – a lot of them, for what the next ten years would look like. And then, suddenly, Moira and Robert are dead and you're on our doorstep, claiming our birthright."

"Except it wasn't your birthright," Oliver said. He had been quiet up to this point, standing at the entrance to the room with his arms crossed over his chest, still as a Roman statue. Now, however, he stepped forward with that familiar tic in his jaw that meant he was getting pissed. I was learning fast that you didn't mess with Oliver when he got that tic. "The house belonged to Moira and Reggie's parents – Malcolm had no claim on it, which means you and Thea had no claim either."

"Stay out of this, Oliver," Malcolm snarled. "You've been all too happy to insert yourself into our lives because Moira was too blind to see you for what you are, but—"

"Hey!" I said. "This isn't about Oliver. This is about our family, and what my parents left to me. I'm sorry if you're mad because they didn't ignore me and leave everything to you vultures—"

"That's enough," Malcolm said. His voice was dangerously low, sending a chill through me. "You've been disrespectful to every one of us from the moment you stepped through that door. Don't think I don't see you rolling your eyes at me, as if I'm some old fool and you're not some…mistake, that just made Moira miss the daughter she should have had—"

"That's enough!" Reggie said.

But Malcolm wasn't done. He stalked toward me, stopping at the chair beside mine. He leaned down, his eyes dark and deadly. "You're not even supposed to be here. Hell… You're not even supposed to be alive."

He reached out in a motion faster than I would have thought possible, and clutched my shirt. I cringed backward, the images coming fast and hard, but he held fast. He stared at my neck, moving the collar until my birthmark was visible.

"Did they tell you what that means?" he asked. "Quentin or Oliver or any of the other so-called friends you've made here?"

"Let her go," Oliver said. I hadn't even seen him move, but suddenly he was beside us. He loomed over Malcolm, his eyes deadly.

"It's okay, Oliver," I said. The visions battered at my brain, but I forced them back with a will I hadn't even known I had. I met Malcolm's eye, tipping my chin up. "I know what the mark means," I said. "But it turns out, some old family curse isn't going to stop me – at least, not until I'm in the ground. Until then, I'm staying. And while I'm here, I'll honor the family legacy by doing something worthwhile with Merlyn Manor and its land."

I stood, pushing Malcolm back with a hand to his chest. Anger pulsed through me; I'd never wanted to punch someone so much in my life. "If you want to stop me, you can try taking me to court. But don't touch me again, and don't think just because I've been civil so far that I'll just lay down and let you call the shots."

Quentin came in then, and seemed to assess the situation at a glance. He took Malcolm by the arm and pulled him back.

"Why don't you take a walk," he suggested. "Cool off for a while."

"No," Malcolm said, yanking his arm away. He shot another glare at me, not even close to backing down, but got himself under control a second later. "Actually, Reggie and I have a conference call, so I don't really have time to continue this little...chat, anyway. If we could have the room."

It wasn't a request. I nodded, still every bit as mad as he was. "Sure – we can do that," I said tightly.

"Perhaps we could continue with your presentation later?" Reggie asked me. His eyes were kind on mine, and I thought again of the young man who had been Lucy's trusted companion. "Frankly, I think Moira would have loved your ideas. I would like to hear more."

Malcolm cast a murderous glance at him, but then was all business. "Tommy, you should sit in on this all," he instructed his son. Tommy winced, his usual charming grin gone for a second before it returned.

"Of course," he agreed.

I rolled up the design I'd made, and passed Oliver on my way out of the room. I caught a glimpse of his face on my way through, and he flashed a quick grin as he leaned in and whispered,

"Nice work."

"Sometimes, I'm perfectly capable of saving myself, Oliver," I returned quietly.

"Yeah," he said with a nod. "I'm starting to get that."

* * *

Of course, as soon as the meeting was over, all the adrenaline that had been coursing through my veins dried up. I told Oliver I was going to lie down, and retreated to my bedroom to try and get my head around everything I'd learned.

Once there, I dumped my day pack onto the bed and stripped to my T-shirt and underwear. Rummaging through my pack, I paused at the discovery of something that definitely had not been there when I left Merlyn Manor that morning: A tattered old book, filled as much with scraps of fabric, photos, and ancient ticket stubs as it was written pages. A note dropped out when I opened it, and I stooped to pick it up.

_Dear Felicity,_ it began.

_This is the diary that belonged to Rose Merlyn. She was never without it, and squirreled away every scrap of anything that could be perceived as meaningful. I'm sure she would want you to have it._

_Best,_

_Ray Palmer_

I traced my finger over the signature, thinking of the mysterious, smiling man who was part of my earliest memories. Against my better judgment, I took out my cell phone and the business card Ray had given me, and dialed.

Ray picked up on the first ring. "I was hoping you'd call," he said, instead of a greeting. "I'm sorry about what happened this morning. The last thing I wanted to do was scare you."

"I know that," I said. "Or… I mean, I think I know it, though it makes no sense _how_ I know it. That's not why I was calling, though."

"No," Ray said. "I'm guessing you have some questions?"

"Only about six billion," I agreed. "Oliver told me some things, but he wanted me to talk to you about…um. Other things." Like the fact that you may or may not be over one hundred years old, I added silently.

"He told me – he called after you got back to the house, to let me know you were all right." He paused. "I do want to have that conversation with you – I swear I do. But I have to leave town for a meeting this evening. I'm going to do my best to be back by tomorrow night. Would you have dinner with me then?"

I pushed past a whirl of butterflies in my stomach – which was apt, given the folklore – and nodded. Of course, then I realized that he couldn't see me nod, and added, "Yes – dinner would be good."

"I'll pick you up at eight."

I didn't bother asking what to wear. I had exactly one dress, so by default that would be my outfit. "I'll see you then."

I hung up, and realized I had forgotten to thank him for giving me Rose's diary. The prospect of another phone call was too daunting, though, so instead I pulled back the covers and snuggled into the warmth of my bed with the diary beside me. I was more tired than I could remember being in my entire life. When I closed my eyes, no visions met me. No ghosts – just darkness.

I let that darkness take me, and slept.

I woke hours later to someone knocking on the bedroom door. When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to find the room dark, and the world just outside my window that much darker.

"Felicity," Quentin called through the door. "I just wanted to check on you…"

I sat up, made sure I wasn't naked, and called, "Come in, Quentin."

He opened the door and flipped the switch on the wall, flooding the room with light. I squinted against the harsh glare and a pounding in my head that seemed to have a life of its own.

"You didn't come down for dinner," Quentin said, "so I figured I'd bring something up. Are you feeling all right?"

There was no missing the anxiety in his voice. I managed a smile. "I'm fine – just tired," I assured him, which was patently untrue. I felt like death warmed over.

He set a tray of food on the desk by the door, then hovered for another few seconds. "I wanted to talk to you, about… uh. Well. Oliver said he told you some things, about the family."

"You mean about the family curse that says I was supposed to die years ago?" I asked.

He grimaced. "Yeah. That."

"That's right," I agreed. "He told me."

Quentin glanced out into the hallway to make sure no one was coming, then closed the door behind him. His dark eyes were anxious, and there was no mistaking the concern on his face. "I know it's a lot to take in. Frankly, I never would have believed any of this garbage back when I was a beat cop in Portland. Turns out, the world isn't half as simple as I thought it was back then."

"No, I don't suppose it is."

"I just wanted to take a minute to tell you a little something about your parents, now that you know…everything."

I looked at him expectantly, that all-too-familiar tightening in my chest returning yet again. "What's that?"

He considered for a second before he spoke, still looking uncomfortable just inside the threshold of the room.

"You can come in, Quentin," I said. "I know I'm safe with you."

He flashed a quick smile, and pulled up a chair – though I noticed he was careful to keep that chair well clear of my bed.

"Right. Well, anyway… Your folks didn't know the whole crazy story about Rose and Ray Palmer. All they knew was that there was a family legend, about girls in the family who were born with the butterfly birthmark – how those girls were doomed to die young. Nobody knew why that happened, they just knew historically Merlyn girls with the birthmark had a lousy track record."

"And then Lucy was born with it," I said.

"Right," he agreed. "Your mom was terrified from the start, but your dad didn't buy into any of it. He assured her there was nothing to worry about. So, Lucy had a birthmark. They would handle it, and the kid would be fine."

"But then she wasn't fine."

He got quiet. "Right." He shook his head, and I was surprised to see tears well in his eyes. "I'm telling you, nobody loved a little girl the way Robert and Moira loved Lucy. They adored her. Gave her the moon. She was a sweetheart, too – not a mean bone in her body, not even a little spoiled. Which was crazy, considering the way she could have gotten away with anything and everything, if she wanted."

A second or two passed in silence before he took a breath, seeming to pull himself back from some very dark memories.

"When she died," he said quietly, "everything stopped for them. Moira especially – your dad tried to hold it together, but they were both…broken. And then, a little over a year later, Moira got pregnant again. I don't think they meant to. I'd just started law school, and I remember having dinner with the two of them, seeing just how scared she was. Nobody knew, of course – they didn't want anyone to find out. Not till they had the baby, and they could see…"

"Whether she had the birthmark," I guessed.

He nodded grimly. "They wrestled over the decision for three months after you were born with the butterfly on your neck – agonized over it. But finally, I think they both knew Moira wouldn't survive if something happened to you the way it had happened to Lucy. They gave you up, in the hope that maybe if you were far enough away, the family curse wouldn't find you. But I swear to you, you were always loved. Moira never stopped thinking about you."

I wiped away my own tears – I hadn't even realized I was crying. "I'm starting to understand, I think," I said. "It's hard, but I can't imagine what they must have gone through when they lost Lucy. I just wish once they realized I wasn't going to have this sunshine-and-unicorns childhood, they'd stepped in."

"They agonized over that, too," Quentin assured me. "Once they got word your adoptive parents died, Robert was ready to go out and get you right then. Moira couldn't handle it, though."

A little, hateful twinge of bitterness ran through me at that. If Moira thought that was hard, she should have tried being tossed from foster home to foster home; being held down by doctors intent on figuring out the secrets of her tortured brain; being drugged out of her mind because no one could be bothered to ask her what was really going on inside her head.

"I just thought you should know," Quentin said. "I know it's gonna take some time for you to sort through the hell you've been through, but I at least wanted to tell you that."

"Thank you," I said. "I appreciate it – honestly."

"I know you do, sweetheart." He stood, and nodded toward the tray of food. "Make sure to eat something, would you? You need to keep your strength up."

I nodded, though food was the very last thing I wanted to think about just then. "I will."

He looked at me doubtfully, and turned to go. When he opened the door, Oliver was standing just outside the room.

"Make sure she eats something, would you?" I heard Quentin say to him. "She doesn't look so good. I may give Willa a call—"

"You don't need to call Willa," I called to him. "And I'm cursed, not deaf."

The two men shared a sympathetic glance, and Quentin left. Oliver remained outside the door for a second, looking uncertain.

"Don't just hover out there like some kind of creepo stalker, Oliver," I said. "Come in."

That smile flickered on his lips again, and he stepped deliberately over the threshold. "Sorry – I definitely don't want to be a creepo stalker. How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

He frowned. "You don't look fine." He crossed the room in a couple of long strides, and sat down on the bed without being invited. When he lay the back of his hand across my forehead, the frown deepened. My eyes sank shut, and I leaned into his cool touch. "You're warm," he said. "I think you have a fever."

"I don't have a fever," I said. When I opened my eyes again, he was studying me intently. "I'm okay, Oliver." I paused, as a sudden realization dawned on me. "Unless I'm not." I searched his face, fighting a sudden wave of panic. "Is this the curse? Can Damian Dahrk do that? Just…I don't know, give me the killer flu all of a sudden, and I'm gone?"

"I don't know," Oliver said. Which, for the record, was not the response I'd been hoping for. "Ray is flying to Inverness now – he has a meeting with Damian."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," he confirmed. "He's going to ask Damian to back off, see if we can buy a little time. The hope being that we'll be able to find the butterfly stone before he gets impatient again."

"Wow. That would be good. I had no idea you could just, I don't know, turn a curse off when it wasn't working for you."

"Most people probably can't. Damian can."

I scooted back in the bed, careful to keep the blankets up around my naked legs, and leaned back against the pillows. Oliver got up and retrieved the tray Quentin had brought in, then set it down on the bedside table.

"You really should eat something," he said.

I wrinkled my nose in distaste, though the food Raisa had prepared – what looked like potato stew, a salad, and a hunk of homemade bread – was perfectly good. The thought of actually eating made my stomach turn, though.

"So, who is this guy?" I asked. I took the bread to placate Oliver, then tore off a corner and returned the rest to the plate. Oliver picked it up promptly and tore off a piece of his own, dipping it in the stew. "Damian Dahrk, I mean. Dahrk definitely doesn't sound Scottish."

"Nobody knows where he came from," Oliver said. He finished off his bread and looked at me expectantly. I took an experimental nibble, and realized I was actually hungrier than I'd thought. I finished that off in a couple of seconds, and picked up the stew. "But his people know magic – dark magic."

"Seems like the name is a little on the nose, then."

"You could say that," Oliver agreed. "It carries weight in Scotland, though. Throughout Europe, actually; everyone knows who Damian Dahrk is."

"And this is, what, the great grandson of the original Damian Dahrk – the one who cursed the Merlyn family?"

"Something like that," Oliver said. Right. I made a face, and set the stew down. "You should eat a little more," he added.

"I'm a grown woman, Oliver – I know how much I should eat. If you don't want me to throw up all over this nice Amish quilt, you'll respect that and back off."

He grinned. "Fair enough."

Silence fell between us, one that wasn't entirely uncomfortable. Eventually, though, I started thinking about the conversation we weren't having, because I was supposed to wait for Ray to come back from pleading for my life so I could have that conversation with him.

"What are you thinking?" Oliver asked, after a minute or two. I looked at him honestly.

"I'm trying to figure out how not to ask the thing I want to know most about you and Ray."

"About me?" he asked. The forehead furrow returned. "What do you need to know about me?"

I chewed on my upper lip, considering. Oliver's gaze fell to my mouth for just a second, and I could have sworn that I saw his eyes darken, reacting in a distinctly un-Oliver-like way to me. I looked away, and promptly stopped the whole lip-chewing thing.

"I've seen you in some of the visions, too," I said. "Or someone who looked like you – though he had a Scottish accent. I haven't seen you – or him, this old-time Oliver – very much, and never before I got on the island. But there's one scene…"

"What is it?" he asked. No mistaking the tension in his voice now.

"It's with Rose. She's in an alley somewhere – looks like Europe, but an alley is an alley I guess, especially in the old days. But she's hurt, and bleeding – a lot. I can feel her fear, how terrified she is. And then you – or he, whatever – is there. She says, 'Oliver, please don't let me die.'"

His throat worked, a storm of emotion in his eyes. He stood and walked away, over to the window to stand as silent sentinel while he got himself back under control.

"You don't see any more than that?" he asked.

"No – that's the only scene he's in. Rose knew him, though; I can feel that. I can feel how much she trusted him, and there's something in his eyes that tells me she meant something to him, too. I just can't figure out what, based on that one-minute flash of whatever. All I know is that he was there, and she was hurt. And she knew him."

"Me," Oliver said. His back was still to me, but I could see a distorted reflection of him in the window. The world outside was a darkened backdrop, but in that moment it felt like Oliver and I were the only people on the planet.

"What?"

"She knew me, Felicity." He turned to face me. "Rose knew me. That person you saw in the vision is me, and the other man – the one you've been seeing for so long – is Ray. The same Ray who's flying to another continent tonight to plead for your life. The night Damian Dahrk cursed Rose's ancestors to an early death, Ray and I were there. His punishment for us was just a little different."

* * *

_Sorry for another cliffhanger, but I'm gradually getting the story out there. I welcome any theories, and thanks as ever for reading and reviewing. You guys are the best!_


	12. Chapter 12

**Previously, in _The Haunting... _**

_"She knew me, Felicity." Oliver turned to face me. "Rose knew me. That person you saw in the vision is me, and the other man – the one you've been seeing for so long – is Ray. The same Ray who's flying to another continent tonight to plead for your life. The night Damian Dahrk cursed Rose's ancestors to an early death, Ray and I were there. His punishment for us was just a little different."_

**And now, Chapter 12 of _The Haunting_**

* * *

_His punishment for us was just a little different._

I started to ask what he meant by that – the words were on the tip of my tongue. Before I could get them out, my chest tightened. The world careened sideways. _I need some help here!_ I heard Oliver shout, not now but one hundred years ago. Rose was in his arms, but it felt like it was me; I could feel his body solid against my own, his heart racing. I couldn't get a breath. My lungs spasmed until I began to cough – not Rose, not one hundred years ago.

Me.

Here.

Now.

"Oliver," I gasped between coughing jags. There was no mistaking the fear in his eyes when he looked at me. Panic clouded everything, closing the world around me down to a single point of light. To blue eyes, intent on mine. "Something's wrong."

He ran to the door and flung it open, shouting down the hallway. "Somebody call Willa. Now!"

An instant later he was on the bed beside me. He took my hands in his. "It's okay," he said. His voice was even, though the fear was still clear on his face. "Just breathe. Easy." He breathed in and out, demonstrating. Easy for him to say.

Tears streamed down my face, the strangling in my chest easing up only slightly before another coughing fit overtook me. I leaned my forehead into Oliver's chest, body racked with chills and a deep, hacking cough unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. Oliver rubbed my back, and I knew he was speaking but I couldn't hear the words.

When the fit finally passed and I could breathe again – marginally, at least – I pulled back, then stared in horror at Oliver's shirt.

Flecks of blood spotted the white cotton. My blood. Oliver followed my gaze when he saw the look on my face, and his own expression paled more than I thought possible. He fought to regain control, then took my chin in his hand and tipped my face to his.

"Listen to me," he said. "You're all right. You're going to be fine, Felicity. Just stay with me."

I nodded, still strangling for air, unable to speak. Willa rushed through the door a short time later, but by then I was hardly aware of her. Of anything. Every breath was agony.

I was dying.

Not soon; not in a few weeks or a year or a decade. Tonight. Now.

I closed my eyes, aware of Willa working on me while Oliver and Quentin stood off to the side of the room, watching. I focused on breathing.

And I prayed.

* * *

When I woke the next morning, sunlight streamed through my window. I lay in bed for a couple of minutes, assessing how I felt. No pounding head, no nausea, no tightness in my chest or aches in my bones. And, best of all, no coughing.

"Well, well, well," Willa said when I opened my eyes. She stood over me, and seemed to take me in at a glance. "Look who's still with us."

She spoke in a whisper, and it was only when she nodded toward the corner that I understood why. Oliver slept in an antique chair far too small for his large frame, his shirt still spotted with my blood.

I moved to sit up, but Willa held me back with a gentling hand on my chest. "Easy, lass. Move slowly, now. You barely made it through the night, let's not go playing the hero now."

"I feel better," I said.

She managed a weary smile. "That's good. That's what we were hoping. Your fever broke at three, maybe four this morning. Ray called not long after."

I looked at her in surprise, mentally recounting the conversation I'd had with Oliver the night before. "It worked, then?" I asked. "Ray going to…um…" Did Willa know about Damian Dahrk? It was hard to keep track of any of this. She smiled patiently, but before she could reply, Oliver woke with a start.

"She's better," Willa said, before he could ask. He stood, stretching briefly before he crossed the room to me.

"You're sure?" he asked her.

"She is," I said. "Whatever Ray did last night, it must have worked." I glanced at Willa. "Not to shortchange your mad doctoring skills."

"Not at all," Willa assured me. "I expect you're right: this has much more to do with Ray Palmer and Damian Dahrk than it does me staying up and mopping your brow all night."

Oliver hovered over us while Willa checked my vitals and listened to my lungs and, ultimately, declared me miraculously healed. At least for the moment. She excused herself a few minutes later, leaving Oliver and me alone once more.

"Sorry if I scared you," I said.

He shrugged wearily. "It's not a problem. I'm just glad you're all right."

"For now. Did you talk to Ray?"

"I did," he confirmed. "We got a reprieve—"

"For how long?"

"A while," he said vaguely. "Don't worry about it."

"Easy for you to say – you didn't contract magical TB last night."

"Damian was proving a point," Oliver said grimly. He sat down in a chair beside the bed. "I'm sorry about that. I think you'll be all right for a while now, though. When Ray gets back tonight, we can focus on figuring out how to access the memories locked inside your head, and from there we'll find the butterfly stone and get it back to Damian."

"You make it sound so easy."

"It could be," he said, though the words lacked conviction. "We won't know until we try. One thing's for sure: it will be easier than standing by and watching you die. At least this way I'll be doing something."

I studied him, genuinely touched. "That bad, huh?"

He huffed a laugh. "You have no idea."

"I'm sorry I worried you – worried everyone. Also sorry for the whole spitting-blood-all-over-you thing," I said, nodding to his shirt, and wrinkled my nose. "You should probably change."

He looked down absently, as though he'd totally forgotten about being covered in my blood. "Yeah, probably so. You mind giving me a little time to freshen up? If you think you can handle the family for a while, I'd like to take an hour."

I hesitated. "Actually, I was kind of hoping we could continue our conversation – the one we were having before the whole coughing-up-blood-and-passing-out episode." He looked so tired that I almost had pity on him - almost. Not quite, though. "You said you and Ray are the ones I'm seeing in the visions. Either you guys have a skincare regime to die for, or something is very, very wrong."

He sighed and leaned back in the chair, massaging the back of his neck as he did so. His whole body looked like it was in knots. "No, you're right. Something is very wrong. As I was saying last night, Dahrk's curse was different for Ray and me. He cursed the Merlyn girls to die; he cursed us to live."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "He cursed you to live? I'm sorry, but that doesn't sound so terrible."

Oliver rolled his eyes. "No? Try it sometime. Try watching your family and friends grow old and die; moving every decade because people start asking questions about you; never getting close to anyone because you're afraid they'll learn your secret. Trust me, it's not all it's cracked up to be."

"So, the healing thing the other night," I said. "That wasn't my imagination; you do heal faster than normal people."

"We do," Oliver confirmed. "We feel pain as much as anyone else does, it just doesn't last as long and ultimately can't kill us."

"And Willa knows about this?" I asked.

He hesitated. The way he looked at me - or didn't, actually - told me there was something I was missing. "Willa was there," he finally admitted.

"Willa was where?" I asked, confused.

"The night Dahrk cursed us at the train station. Willa was a healer...witch...I don't know, people called her a lot of things. But she worked for Dahrk; she was there that night, and tried to help us - tried to help Rose. Dahrk didn't take too kindly to that."

"So she's immortal too?" Whoa. I wondered if I'd had some kind of mental break last night during all the coughing, and this was the result. Maybe Oliver wasn't here at all, and I was imagining this entire conversation. I studied him, but the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his jaw combined with the blood flecks on his shirt convinced me: this was all very real.

"She is," Oliver said.

I had a million other questions to ask, but before I could get a single one of them out, someone knocked lightly on the door. Quentin opened up without waiting for me to answer, which spoke to how worried he'd been; most of the time, he practically had to have a written invitation before he'd come in my bedroom. Concern shadowed his eyes, and my heart twisted a little at just how relieved he looked at sight of me sitting up in the bed.

"I heard you were feeling better," he said, smiling.

"I am," I confirmed. "Sorry to worry everyone."

"Just see that you don't do it again," he said. He looked at Oliver, and shook his head. "Jesus, kid. You look worse than she does, and she's the one who was at death's door last night."

"You do look pretty bad," I agreed.

"I'm definitely feeling last night," he admitted. "I was thinking I might take an hour, try to get my head together."

"Take two," I said. "Or three. I don't think I'll be going anywhere this morning, and what are the chances Malcolm's going to murder me in front of the rest of the family? Actually, don't answer that. Go ahead, Oliver. We can talk more later - I'll be fine."

He didn't look convinced, but eventually he agreed, leaving me alone with Quentin once more. I looked at the tray that the lawyer still held.

"Thanks for bringing that up," I said, "but I could have eaten downstairs, Quentin. I'm not an invalid."

"Maybe not now, but you should have seen yourself last night. Actually, scratch that - it's probably better you didn't. I'm glad you're feeling so much better now, but you still need to take it easy." He nodded to the tray. "You think you can get some food in you now?"

"Definitely – I'm kind of famished." I got up and went to a small side table set up by the window, with a perfect view of the overgrown grounds below. Quentin stood by with his hands in his pockets and hovered over me until I finally shook my head. "Okay, this definitely isn't going to work. Either sit down and eat with me, or go find somebody else to babysit. I'm fine – I swear."

"You're not fine," he said darkly. "I don't care what kind of hocus pocus Willa's Scottish friend supposedly worked on you. As sick as you were last night-"

"I'll take it easy," I promised him. "I swear."

When he finally left, only half convinced I wasn't going to choke to death on the broth and scrambled eggs Raisa had made, I sighed with relief. Sometimes, alone is a very good thing.

I showered once I'd gotten some food down, amazed at how much better I felt: clear, focused, and energized. Turns out, wizard cures are so much more effective than ibuprofen. All the while, I kept thinking about what Oliver had told me.

Cursed to live forever.

He was right: it sounded great at first, but I couldn't imagine watching everyone else go on with their lives, grow old, die...and I just stayed the same. I wondered what his life had been like when he'd first met Ray, or how they had met. He said he'd watched his family die; had that included a wife, I wondered? Or children? I shivered at the thought. What could be worse than living through the death of your babies?

Of course, the Merlyn family had a lot of experience with that, didn't they?

It was only after I was fed, clean, and dressed that I remembered Rose's diary. I searched the blankets, but could find no sign of it. I panicked, and was just about to call for Quentin when I spotted it behind the bed.

Phew.

It was nine a.m. by this time, and I could hear voices downstairs. I had no desire to join the rest of the family any sooner than I had to, so settled at the table by the window to work my way through Rose's words.

I paused at the first page, running my fingers over the inscription.

_To my Rose, _

_To record every precious second. _

_Much love always, _

_Dad_

_You're sixteen years old, Rose,_ a low voice echoed in my head. The scene around me changed in an instant, but with a clarity I'd never experienced before. There was no blurring at the edges, no haze. I was in this bedroom, though everything in it was new: the wallpaper not yet faded, none of the dings and scratches in the floorboards or the furniture. Rose sat on the bed, Byron – her father – at the entrance to the room. She was crying, and I could feel the fury tightening her chest.

_You will not leave this house before your eighteenth birthday, I don't care how much you think you love this boy._

Rose glared at him, tears streaming down pale cheeks. _You only want here so I can be your model – if I didn't agree to strip to nothing and sit for hours in your studio, I wonder how long you would care that I was in your house._

Byron's jaw worked, emotion that surprised me showing in his eyes. _You are an important part of my work, Rose – you're right about that. But if you think that's the only reason we care about you in this family, you're wrong. You're still a child—_

_Not according to the men at the last gallery showing,_ she bit out. Color climbed high in her cheeks, grief replaced with rage in an instant. _They see me as anything but a little girl, thanks to you._

The vision faded before I could see Byron's reaction to her words, but I was surprised by how much he clearly cared about his daughter. The portraits he'd painted of Rose made me think there had been something less-than-kosher about the relationship between the two of them, but now I wondered if I was right about that. Whenever I got flashes of Rose, I never felt like she'd suffered any actual, physical abuse, but obviously it had taken an emotional toll being painted so explicitly for so many years. No wonder she had issues.

I leafed through the rest of the book, surprised to find page after page taken up with sketches of women's fashions of the day. Measurements accompanied them, along with scribbled notes about which kind of fabric should be used, what color each piece would be, and the stitches that would work best. Rose was a designer. Or she'd wanted to be, anyway.

I paused at the sketch of an elaborate wedding gown, and closed my eyes. Tried to push myself into that memory.

I got flashes of Ray's face, of Rose hunched over a sewing machine, of a riverbank that may have been on the Seine, but everything was just an impression. Try as I might, I couldn't get to that moment.

Frustrated, I finally put the diary away at ten o'clock to go find Oliver.

His bedroom door was closed. I hesitated before knocking, afraid that I would wake him. He'd been up watching over me for most of the night – the man could use a break at this point. The thought of what he would do if I left the house without him was enough to convince me it was better to risk waking him than deal with his temper if I didn't.

"Oliver, it's me," I called through the door after knocking.

He opened up before I'd gotten the words out, and my eyes widened at the sight that greeted me. Oliver stood in low-slung sweats and no shirt, a naked, very muscular chest suddenly right there at eye level.

"Uh – hi," I said to his chest. I blinked and took a step back. He was sweaty, and I noted a set of weights in the corner of the room and a pull-up bar mounted in his closet door.

"You ready?" he asked. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face, motioning me into the room.

"I am – or I was, but I can wait if you're naked." I shook my head. "Busy. I can wait if you're busy."

He grinned at me, lighter than I'd seen him since our first meeting. "I haven't had much time to work out since I signed on with you. Turns out there's not a lot of down time when protecting Felicity Smoak."

He took a long pull from a water bottle, and leaned back against the wall. I was having a hard time looking away from his chest – not only because of the muscles and the sweat, but because of an almost inhuman number of scars that marred what would otherwise be a statue-worthy torso.

"Felicity?" Oliver prompted, when I continued to stare without managing a word. My eyes shot up to his face, cheeks flaming.

"Sorry," I said. "I just…haven't seen this much of you. You have a lot of scars." Nice, Felicity. Very sensitive.

"They're from a long time ago," he said. "I'm fine."

"Yes, you are," I said, then blushed all the harder and closed my eyes. "Fine as in okay, I mean – not fine as in, whoa, he is fine… Though you are, obviously. But—"

"Felicity," Oliver said quietly, and I liked the way it sounded like he was smiling when he said my name. I opened my eyes. He had grabbed a T-shirt, and now pulled it over his head. "Take a breath," he instructed.

I did, and immediately felt better. "So, you can scar?" I asked when I could speak again. "When you heal, you don't just heal completely?"

"No, I do," he said. "These are all from before Dahrk."

I bit my lip, lost in thought. Those weren't small scars. What had he been doing before he and Ray became friends, or whatever it was they'd been to each other in the 1920s?

"I have a lot of questions," I admitted.

He grinned at me, that lightness returning. "Why am I not surprised about that? Should we take a walk? I'll answer what I can."

"A walk sounds good. It would be nice to get outside again, and—"

"Hail, hail, the prodigal daughter returns," a girl's voice called from downstairs. Seconds later, I heard footsteps racing up the stairs, and Thea appeared in Oliver's open doorway.

"Hey!" she said, with an easy smile. "I caught the first boat – well, the only boat – in with Sara." She looked from me to Oliver, eyes darkening with suspicion. "Sorry, did I interrupt something?"

There was a bratty little sister quality to the question that I found weirdly endearing, having never had a bratty little sister before.

"Not at all," Oliver said smoothly. "Felicity and I were just getting ready for a walk."

"Great," Thea said. 'That's why I'm here, actually."

I turned to her with a silent question, eyebrows up.

"Reggie called last night and said you could use reinforcements," she explained. "He thinks you have some cool ideas, but he asked that I use my patented Merlyn charm to get Dad and Tommy on board."

"Really?" I asked stupidly. "But I thought Reggie hated me."

"He looks at everyone that way," she said, waving a hand. "He's actually a marshmallow – plus, he's not an idiot, and it sounds like what you're talking about would be great PR for Merlyn Enterprises. God knows we need it."

"I had no idea you were so attuned to the business, Thea," Malcolm said, materializing so suddenly at Oliver's door that I jumped. He appraised me with a long, cool look. "Nice to see you're up and around again, Felicity. Feeling better?"

"Were you sick?" Thea asked.

"Just a passing bug," I assured her.

"You weren't throwing up, were you?" She took a step back, looking like she'd just spotted a pit viper in the room. "Because I hate throwing up. I'm excited about the gardens and the new cousin thing, but a girl's gotta draw the line somewhere."

"I didn't throw up," I assured her. I just coughed blood all over Oliver and nearly died, I added silently. Just another Saturday night at Merlyn Manor.

"Okay, good," Thea said with a relieved sigh. "Then where were we?" Before anyone else could reply, she answered herself. "Right: garden tour. Daddy and I will just leave you two to whatever was making Oliver sweat so much, and meet you downstairs in fifteen minutes? I'll get Reggie and Tommy, too."

Malcolm protested, but I was impressed at how easily Thea handled him. She winked at me as the two of them left the room, shutting the door soundly behind them.

"So much for quiet time in the woods," I said.

"This is good, though," Oliver said. "Trust me, Thea is a force to be reckoned with. If you have her on your side, it's only a matter of time before the rest of the family falls in line."

"Even Malcolm?" I asked doubtfully.

"Maybe not Malcolm," he conceded. "But with everyone else on your side, you can get around Malcolm. Moira always did."

"If you say so."

"I do. And now, unless you want me to change in front of you, just give me a couple of minutes. I'll meet you down there."

I was momentarily thrown by that thought, but then I ordered my hormones to give it a rest and left him.

Five minutes later, I met Oliver in the hallway and the two of us went downstairs to find Thea, Reggie, and a clearly reluctant Tommy waiting at the door. Malcolm, predictably enough, was nowhere to be found.

"Dad said he had business to take care of," Thea explained.

"Right. Of course he did," Tommy said. "I'm sure any other time, Dad would love to traipse all over a freezing island with the woman who stole his birthright."

"You really need to stop saying that," Reggie said, surprising me with a smile. "It comes off as tacky and melodramatic. Unless that's what you're going for."

"No," Tommy said. "I was going more for righteous anger."

"You might want to work on that, then," Reggie said. "Practice in the mirror; that always worked for your father."

"Ouch," Thea said. "Somebody's got the claws out."

"Guilty," Reggie said, with a shrug. "You know Malcolm brings out the worst in me."

Reggie was at least a decade older than Tommy, whom I suspected was in his late twenties, but there was something about the way he interacted with both Tommy and Thea that reminded me more of siblings than cousins. I envied the ease between them, the history and connection that they shared, and couldn't help but wonder what it would have been like if I'd been raised with all of them.

"If this is all of us, we should head out," Thea said, taking charge – something I suspected was fairly common. "You ready to dazzle us, Liss?" she asked me.

It took me a second to realize Liss was me. "You might want to work on your expectations, but I'll do my best."

* * *

_And there you have it... I told you there would be answers! So, was it what you'd thought? Things get dicey again in the next chapter, but hopefully this one kept your interest. Reviews are wildly appreciated, so drop one with your thoughts on the curse (or anything else, really) if you get the notion. Thanks as always for reading!_


	13. Chapter 13

Considering all that had happened and all I'd learned in the past twenty-four hours, I hadn't actually had a lot of time to think about how I would present my plans for the Merlyn grounds to the family if I was given another chance. The fact that Thea, Reggie, and Tommy were willing to accompany me around the acreage was more than I'd ever expected, however, and I intended to take full advantage of their interest, coerced or not.

We were just leaving the house when a giant, muscular black man I recognized as the bartender from the other night emerged from the woods. He wasn't alone, a young, good-looking white guy with sandy brown hair beside him. Tommy and Reggie both tensed, but Oliver stepped forward quickly.

"Dig, Roy, thanks for coming." He turned to me. "I hope you don't mind, but I invited a couple of friends to join the tour."

The men stepped forward, both looking every bit as leery as Tommy and Reggie. Thea, on the other hand, looked more than happy for the company.

"No, that's good...I guess," I said, though I couldn't keep the uncertainty from my voice. "The more the merrier, right?"

"John Diggle, I think you and Felicity met the other night."

The man stepped forward with his hand extended. He was even bigger than I'd remembered him from the bar, but his dark eyes had a kindness to them that I'd missed in the insanity of our first meeting. I shook reluctantly, and before I could pull back images flashed through my head with the same clarity I'd experienced earlier. This time I saw Mara Merlyn, who had been the older sister of my mother and Reggie. In the vision, she was a teenager, mounted on a horse alongside her siblings and Malcolm.

"Not under the best circumstances, but yeah," the man said. "Nice to see you again, Felicity."

"You too, Mr. Diggle," I said blinking past the vision as I reclaimed my hand.

"Please - everyone calls me Dig," he said.

"And this is Roy Harper," Oliver said, introducing the younger man. "Roy's part of one of the oldest fishing families on the island."

I withheld my hand this time, thinking immediately of the men who had attacked me in the bar. Roy frowned, regret in his eyes.

"I heard about what happened at the Legion the other night," he said. "Some of the guys out here aren't exactly what you'd call civilized; others just kind of got caught up in the fight. Either way, I'm sorry for the way things went down - it's inexcusable, so I won't bother trying to make an excuse. I'm just glad you're all right."

"Thank you," I said.

"What's he talking about?" Reggie asked. "What fight?"

"It wasn't a big deal," I said. "Oliver and Dig took care of it."

Before they could ask more questions, which they clearly intended, Oliver interrupted.

"Roy just graduated from College of the Atlantic, with a focus on sustainability in commercial fishing," he explained to me. "If you're going to make all these ideas you have for the island work, I figured you'd need some allies."

I flashed a smile at Oliver, surprised. "I didn't realize you were paying attention to any of that."

"I was," he said simply, that hint of a smile still in place, blue eyes intent on mine.

"I'm Thea Merlyn," Thea said, cutting the moment short as she stepped forward to take Roy's hand. "It's nice to meet you, Roy."

She batted her eyelashes at him, but Roy barely spared her a glance before he reclaimed his hand.

"Yeah, you too," he said absently, then shifted focus back to me. "We didn't mean to interrupt, but I really would love to hear what you're thinking. Malcolm has the whole island running scared since you got back, telling them you're shutting down the fishery."

"I don't know anything about the fishery," I said, "so I definitely have no intention of shutting it down at this point. I would like to learn more, though - I think there's a lot of potential to do something important for both the residents on the island and the planet as a whole. That's my objective, anyway."

"Can we get started?" Tommy interrupted impatiently. He glanced at his phone. "The boat heads back to the mainland in an hour, and I for one intend to be on it."

"Of course," I said, forcing brightness to my voice. "Please. Follow me."

It was a gorgeous day to be on the island, the spring sun warm enough that I quickly shed my jacket in favor of the pink sweater I wore underneath. Melting snow ran in rivers in the path ahead of us, and every glimpse of unfrozen ground beneath made my heart happy. Tender new daffodil shoots poked their heads through the remnants of crusted snow, and I could have stooped to kiss them. Spring really would come eventually, even out here.

It didn't take long for the others to fall under the same spell I had. I pointed out native plants, migratory birds, and signs of the few deer who had resettled out here. Thea especially seemed taken with the island, and I recalled that unlike Reggie and probably Tommy, she had no experience with life out here.

"This is where I plan to plant the butterfly meadow I mentioned last night," I said as we approached a tract of open land not far from Merlyn Manor.

"The family used to play croquet here," Reggie said. There was no argument in the words, but his sadness was impossible to miss.

"It will still be a gathering place," I said. "We'll make paths through the meadow, and people can bring their families – it will be a great place for kids. And, it should encourage a level of biodiversity that could be huge for the area. For the whole state, really."

Reggie looked out at the barren field, now just empty space and half-melted snow, and nodded. "Moira would have loved that," he mused. "And God knows our ancestors were invested in preserving this place. I think they would approve."

"Definitely," Thea said quietly, with surprising emotion in the word. "Moira loved flowers and color – she would be crazy about this whole idea." She turned to Tommy. "What do you say, brother dear?"

His nod was the most surprising of all, his eyes dark with emotion I hadn't expected. "Yeah," he said roughly. "What the hell? Who plays croquet anymore anyway?"

When we reached the pond a few minutes later, everyone in the group fell silent, swamped by the beauty of the place.

"I forgot this was even here," Tommy said quietly. He looked at Reggie. "Weren't there paddle boats…?" he asked.

"That's right," Reggie confirmed. "I used to take you and Lu—" He stopped and swallowed hard, with a glance at me.

"I know about Lucy," I said gently.

He offered a haunted smile. "Yes, well… I was the _de facto_ babysitter when there were family gatherings. I didn't mind," he assured me, and Thea smiled at him with more warmth than I'd seen from the girl so far. "I was younger by a decade than Moira, and only ten when Tommy was born. Then Lucy came along, and we had our own little club."

"Much better than those boring parties my father used to throw," Tommy said.

"Much," Reggie agreed. He shifted focus back to me. "What do you have in mind here?"

I explained about building up habitat for nesting birds; bat houses in the trees surrounding the pond; working with local biologists to restock the pond with native fish and other marine life to keep the pond healthy.

"How exactly do fish and frogs keep the pond healthy?" Thea asked. "And do we really want bats out here? They freak me out."

"Marine life keeps the water circulating," Roy explained to her, before I could reply. "Circulation encourages oxygenation of the water, and you ideally avoid things like algae blooms that can wipe out everything living in the pond."

"And bats are just awesome," I added.

Thea didn't acknowledge my comment, too busy making googly eyes at Roy. I noticed that he didn't seem so indifferent to her now, which made my little shipper heart skip a beat. Obviously it was premature, but one day those two would have the prettiest babies on the planet.

"So, no paddle boats," Reggie surmised.

"People can still enjoy it out here," I said. "I was thinking of putting a dock in, maybe getting a kayak so people can go out when they want. Not tons of people," I added quickly. "But, you know…some."

"I love kayaking," Reggie said. "Or used to, anyway. It would be nice to go out again."

"So there you go," I said. "You could come out here any time you wanted."

From the grounds, we eventually found our way to the greenhouse. I'd actually spent very little time there since moving to the island, preferring to be outside whenever I could. I unlocked the heavy wooden door and saw the vision I'd had that first time Oliver brought me here: a little blond girl peering out from the greenery, a grin on her face.

_Chase me, Uncle Reggie!_

And Reggie, young and laughing, weaving in and out of blooming flowers and full-grown trees.

"Felicity?" I heard Thea say. I returned to the present to find her watching me curiously. "We can't actually get in unless you move."

"Right – sorry!" I got out of the way, holding the door open for the group. Oliver was the last to pass, and looked at me with concern.

"Everything okay?"

"It is," I assured him, and actually meant it this time. "Just another flash, no big deal."

He nodded, though concern lingered in his eyes as he passed.

There were oohs and ahhs all around as we moved deeper into the greenhouse. I looked at Roy and Dig, as the only other residents of the island besides Oliver and me.

"I actually want to establish a year-round growing program in here," I told them. "God knows we have the space, and I'm sure it's hard to get fresh produce out to the island in the winter."

"Try impossible," Dig said, clearly intrigued.

"Right," I said. "So, we could maybe create a community garden. People could sign on to help out, and we could grow enough produce to feed island residents all winter long."

"How much are we talking for membership for something like that?" Roy asked. "Most people don't have the money for much."

"There wouldn't need to be a fee—" I began.

Tommy immediately started to protest, but Dig drowned him out.

"That won't fly out here," he said. "People are poor, but they're also proud – nobody's looking for a handout. Besides which, a little financial investment increases the likelihood that people will actually stick with it after the first enthusiasm wears off."

"He has a point," Thea said. "Studies have shown that scholarship students are twice as likely to complete their course of study if they have some kind of financial investment in the program. I'm sure the same would apply here."

Everyone fell silent at that, staring openly at her. She made a face. "What? Contrary to popular belief, I'm not some airhead party girl. Just because I've flunked out of a couple of boarding schools doesn't mean I don't read."

"Six, actually," Tommy inserted. "She's flunked out of six boarding schools."

"Seven as of Friday," she said breezily, "but who's counting?" She turned on Tommy. "And no, Dad doesn't know yet. I was saving that for later, when we're off the island so he can't drown me."

"My lips are sealed," Tommy said. "I try to be as far as possible from the two of you when you go at it – it makes it less likely I'm caught in the crossfire."

"Let me know if you need me to be a buffer," Reggie said. "If he'd stop sending you to these places in the first place, it would solve the problem."

"That's what I keep telling him," Thea said.

The dynamic between the three of them continued to surprise me, especially the way Reggie looked after both of them. I hadn't heard anything about a romantic partner for him, and wondered why he didn't have a family of his own. Obviously, he was crazy about kids.

We moved on, pausing again when we came to the koi pond.

"You know," Thea said, "I think I'm having a thought."

"Uh oh," Tommy said.

"Very funny," she said, rolling her eyes. "But hear me out. Felicity, you're looking for the family to get behind this, right? And you want to get the islanders to back it at the same time. So, what if we threw a party—" She glared at her brother, holding up a hand just as he was about to speak. "—and spare me the snide comments about Thea and her raves. I'm serious here."

"I don't know," I said.

"It could be amazing, though," she argued. "You spend the next couple of months getting everything the way you want it, or as close as possible at least, and then you have a big gala celebrating the opening of the Merlyn Island Preserve…or something, I don't know. We could hire some boats to bring people over from the mainland, have the whole thing catered, invite the locals. Can you think of a prettier spot to have an event than this greenhouse?"

"Yeah, but I'm not much for party planning," I said.

"Which is why it's so good that we're cousins," Thea said, with an infectious grin. "I'm incredible at party planning."

"It's true," Tommy said. "Her sweet sixteen was the party of the decade in coastal Maine."

"Exactly," Thea said. "And I'm telling you, this would be incredible publicity for Merlyn Enterprises: an island preserve, butterfly meadows, community organic gardening… The board would go crazy for this."

"Since when do you know anything about the Merlyn board?" Reggie asked.

"I pay more attention to that stuff than any of you give me credit for," Thea said. "Seriously. High school is wasted on me – just give me a freaking job."

"This isn't actually a bad idea," Roy said, stepping into the mix again. "If you hired some of the locals to help prepare for the event, it puts money directly into the local economy. That talks a lot more than words, trust me. And it gives them a chance to get to know you, figure out that you're not out to shut everything down around here."

A phone rang before I could reply, the ring tone an unexpected dance beat that totally threw me. Tommy pulled his cell from his pocket and glanced at the display.

"I need to take this, sorry. I'll catch up with you."

He stepped away from the group, while I shifted focus to Thea. Despite my trepidation, I was starting to get excited. Growing up, extravagant galas weren't exactly on the menu for me. And this really could be a way to bridge the divide between the Merlyn family and the community on Crab's Neck.

"Come on, Felicity," Thea said. "What do you think? Say Summer Solstice this year? How much can you get done by that time?"

I considered it, pausing briefly at the mention of the solstice. "That's my birthday," I said.

"What better way to celebrate, then?" she asked.

I glanced at Oliver, who had been notably quiet during this exchange. "What do you think?" I asked. I was thinking of Damian Dahrk, and the curse that may or may not be back in full effect within the next day, week, or month. I got the sense Oliver knew this, though. He paused to consider for only a few seconds before he nodded.

"I think it could be good," he said. "We can figure out the other things on your plate."

"What other things?" Thea asked immediately.

"Never mind," I said, and took a breath. I looked around the greenhouse, thinking again of all those flashes of the past that I had seen. This place could be amazing again; it could be all it was before, and more.

I could do this – I was sure of it.

And then, just as I was opening my mouth to say yes, there was a change in the air.

Everything slowed. Tightened.

I saw a flash of movement to my left, down a path that led deeper into the greenhouse. A glint of steel caught in the sunlight.

The ground shook beneath my feet as the first shot was fired, the explosion deafening.

Reggie went down.

Thea screamed.

Oliver knocked me to the ground and lay on top of me, and another shot sounded. I saw the impact of the bullet as it struck Thea just as Roy was pulling her down; heard her cry out in pain while another volley of bullets shattered the glass above us, sending it down as deadly hail on us all.

"Dig!" Oliver hissed to his friend, who was crouched behind a stone half-wall behind the koi pond. He made a few military-looking gestures that I took to mean he was about to do something stupid, and Dig nodded his understanding.

"Stay here," Oliver whispered in my ear. "Call 911. Take care of the others."

"Where are you going?"

"To get this son of a bitch."

* * *

**_I know - this is the worst cliffhanger of all. I'll be back tomorrow with the next installment, though, never fear. I do have a question, though, and I'd love to hear from folks on the subject. I'm actually an author in RL with a couple of published mystery series; I'm trying this out with the potential of publishing it as a paranormal romance (obviously, with different characters). What I'm wondering is how the environmental stuff is coming through in this. I don't want this to be a preachy book about sustainability, but rather a book that happens to revolve around a character for whom sustainability is a passion. I'd love your perspective on how that aspect of the plot is coming through, though. Thanks in advance for any feedback, and thank you again, so much, for reading!_**


	14. Chapter 14

Oliver took a gun from the holster at his side; when I looked up, I noted that Dig had done the same. Both men stayed crouched low. There hadn't been any more gunfire since the ceiling of the greenhouse had exploded, but I counted out another endless sixty seconds after Oliver left before I allowed myself to move.

I called 911 as Oliver had instructed, though I had no idea what to tell them.

"What's your emergency?" the woman asked, so calm she almost sounded bored.

"There's a shooter," I hissed, keeping my voice low.

"Where are you, ma'am?" she asked. Any trace of boredom was gone.

"On an island – Crab's Neck. We're on Crab's Neck."

"Is the shooter still there, ma'am?"

I hesitated. "I – I'm not sure. They went after him. I think he's gone. But we need an ambulance—"

"How many are injured, ma'am?" she asked.

I looked up, my heart beating so hard it felt like it would escape my chest before the conversation was done. "I'm not sure."

Reggie lay splayed on the stones, a pool of deep red blood spreading beneath him. Thea was draped on top of him, sobbing. I looked at Roy.

"Is she hurt?"

"I don't know," he said. "Thea – hey." He pulled her away gently, and my stomach rolled at the amount of blood that stained her coat. "Are you hurt?" he asked. "Were you hit?"

She shook her head, but I didn't trust the confusion in her eyes.

"Two, I think," I finally told the dispatcher. "One is bad. I don't know..." I choked on the words, tears springing to my eyes. "I'm not sure he's alive."

"Is there a place where a Medevac unit can land?" the woman on the phone asked.

"Can a helicopter land here?" I asked Roy.

"Yeah – we've had them out here before," he said quickly.

"Yes," I said. "There's a place to land – please, just send someone out."

I hung up, then dialed Willa immediately. By the time I'd ended that call, Roy had Thea sitting on the stones over by the pond. She sat in shock, silent tears rolling down her face. He'd taken off his jacket and the flannel shirt that he'd worn under it, and now that flannel was wrapped tightly around Thea's arm - she apparently had been hit after all.

"Is she all right?" I asked Roy hoarsely.

"It's through-and-through," he said. "Tagged her in the shoulder. We need to get her to the hospital."

"They're sending someone. And Reggie?"

Roy shook his head grimly. Thea's eyes sank shut, tears still falling.

A sudden rustling in the brush just down the path followed by the sound of someone crashing through foliage had my heart racing all over again. Thea barely looked up, but I noticed that Roy moved quickly to stand in front of her, as though to protect her from whatever new disaster was headed our way. Instead of an armed madman, though, Tommy emerged from the darkened path. He looked terrified, his eyes widening that much more at the scene he found.

"Thea!"

Thea let out a small, inhuman cry at sight of her brother, and stumbled to her feet and ran to him. Tommy pulled her into his arms; I couldn't help but be touched by the emotion on his face, the sheer relief I saw there.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded after a few seconds, as his gaze fell to Reggie's lifeless body.

"There was a shooter," I said numbly. I felt sick.

"Thea, you should sit back down," Roy said, looking on from a distance.

Tommy pulled her away and held her at arm's length, only then noting the bandage around her arm. "She... You were shot?"

"She'll be all right," Roy said awkwardly. "We just need to get her to the hospital."

I expected Tommy to snap at the outsider, but instead he looked grateful. "Thanks for looking after her," he said quietly.

"I called Willa," I said. "And 911."

"That's good," Tommy said. He forced himself to take a steadying breath, then refocused on his sister. "Come on - Roy was right, you need to take it easy till the paramedics get here."

"But Reggie…" She began to sob, and Tommy wrapped her in his arms once more.

I looked away from the grim tableau and instead stared into the pond. A fresh surge of panic gripped me at the shards of glass that glittered in the water. Blood floated to the surface alongside one of the koi, a jagged piece of glass impaling its brilliant scales.

"Where the hell was Oliver in all this?" Tommy asked, anger coming through for the first time. I knelt by the pond and began removing the glass piece by piece, only dimly aware of the others suddenly. "I thought he was supposed to be here to keep something like this from happening."

A sliver of orange flashed beneath the water, the fish moving fast. Another followed. I forced myself to take a steadying breath. They were all right, at least for now – at least some of them. I pulled out another shard of glass, and another, piling them on the stones while Tommy's frustration built.

"If he can't protect you – us – then what the hell are we paying him for?" he demanded.

"I'm here," Oliver's gruff voice said. Somewhere far away, I felt a sense of calm that I couldn't quite access. Oliver was here, but how did that really matter?

Reggie was still dead. Thea was hurt. I had a death sentence hanging over my head, and no idea how to escape it.

I pulled out another shard of glass, my gaze never leaving the water.

"Felicity," I heard Oliver say, still far away.

"She's lost it," I heard Tommy say with disgust. "And if my sister—"

"I'm okay, Tommy," Thea said, a new edge of steel in her voice. I looked up. Bloodied and white as chalk, she didn't look okay to me. Still, somehow she managed to get to her feet and stalked-slash-staggered to Oliver. "Did you catch the son of a bitch who did this?" she demanded.

He shook his head regretfully, Dig standing beside him. "No. The whole thing happened too fast, and he bought himself some time making the sky fall." Oliver paused, assessing Tommy. He stood beside his sister, almost as pale as she was. "Where were you? You must have heard—"

"Of course I heard," Tommy said coldly. "But there wasn't a lot I could do until I knew it was safe, unless I wanted to get myself killed too."

Another koi floated to the top of the pond, belly up. I removed the body and set it aside as gently as I could on the stones, careful to avoid more glass.

_The fish are my friends,_ Winnie Merlyn told her mother, sitting in exactly this spot. Wreckage and ruin disappeared, and the greenhouse was whole, green, all over again. Winnie's mother Rachel smiled at her, smoothing the hair back from her daughter's forehead.

_And why wouldn't they be?_ she asked her daughter. _Every creature on this island is your friend – every caterpillar, every bug and butterfly. The world loves you, Winnie the Pooh._

The scene vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and I was suddenly at a cliffside on a stormy night. I was cold, and I was wet. Not me, I reminded myself. Winnie was cold and wet. I wasn't her; she wasn't me.

_Esther!_ Winnie called. She was sobbing._ Esther, come back! Come on, puppy…_ Rain slashed down, a bolt of lightning illuminating the darkness for just an instant.

In that flash of light, I caught my breath.

Stared.

A man's face stared back at me.

"Felicity," Oliver said. His hand on my arm brought me back. I looked up, felt my heart racing in my chest. He was crouched in front of me, concern clear on his face.

"I'm all right," I said.

"You're not – you're bleeding," he said. "Let me take a look."

"Thea's hurt worse—"

"Willa's taking care of Thea," he said. I looked over in surprise to find Willa beside my cousin, tending her arm with calm efficiency. When had she gotten there?

"I'm fine," I said.

"Let me be the judge of that." He took my hand grimly. I noticed the blood there for the first time, coming from a deep, jagged cut across my palm. I hadn't even felt it.

"What the hell happened?" Malcolm's voice suddenly cut through my fog. He raced onto the scene and stopped immediately at sight of Reggie. My uncle's eyes were closed now, I noticed, but otherwise he hadn't been moved – still lying in the middle of the stones, the blood beneath beginning to congeal.

Malcolm saw Thea next and rushed to her, kneeling beside her and pulling her into his arms. She didn't seem soothed by his presence, instead stiffening in his embrace. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She pulled back, and looked at him with the kind of hate I never could have imagined a child could have for her father.

"I'm fine. And it looks like you got your wish, Dad. Reggie's dead – you're the heir apparent at Merlyn Enterprises."

"I never wished Reggie harm," Malcolm replied. He was perfectly calm, not an ounce of fire in the words. His dark eyes had gone dead, something cold and dangerous lurking there. "My cousin was irreplaceable. The best among us."

Tears rolled down Thea's cheeks, but there was a chill to her words when she spoke. "Yes," she said, her eyes never leaving her father's. "He was."

* * *

Quentin arrived close on Malcolm's heels with a trio of paramedics. It was obvious at this point that nothing could be done for Reggie, so they focused on Thea instead. Willa cleaned out the wound in my hand and patched it with butterfly bandages, though she said stitches would probably be better. I declined; Willa didn't argue. Despite Thea's protests, Malcolm insisted she be flown to the Maine Medical Center in Portland, where she could be evaluated and held overnight. Tommy and Willa went with them, but Malcolm remained behind, assuring Thea that he would meet her at the hospital – though the way Thea looked at him, I wasn't sure that was his safest option.

The second they were gone, Malcolm turned his cold glare on me. Oliver, still beside me, tensed visibly.

"I want you out of our lives," Malcolm told me. The emotion that had been missing before was back in spades now. "My children could have died today. My cousin is dead. I don't care what blood you shared with Moira and Robert; I don't care what kind of asinine plea she made in the moments before her death. If I need to pay you, I will do so – but I want you off our land."

"You need to stop thinking of this place as 'our land,' Malcolm," Quentin said, a coolness to his tone that belied the anger that flashed clear as night in his dark eyes. "This belonged to Moira; Moira very clearly passed it on to Felicity. It may have belonged to shared family once upon a time, but those days are long gone. Let them go."

"Never," Malcolm said darkly.

There was something cruel that bordered on downright terrifying in his eyes as he glared at me. I did my best to stay cool, focused, but it took some effort. Malcolm took another step toward me, his gaze running over me from head to toe.

"I'll bring in an army of lawyers," he said. "They'll dredge up every last unsavory detail of your past. Every institution you were in; every foster home that sent you away; every voice you heard of vision you claimed… I'll have you labeled incompetent, drag everything about you into the public eye, and by the time I'm done with you no one will even trust you with a job at McDonald's, so you can forget about being in charge of a multi-million-dollar estate."

As he spoke, Malcolm continued to advance on me until we were toe to toe, him glaring down at me. Suddenly, that flash of lightning sparked in my brain again: Winnie, on the cliff. The face staring out at her from the shadows.

"Step back, Malcolm," Oliver said, his voice dangerously low. Malcolm didn't budge.

The face remained in my mind's eye.

Dark, cruel eyes. Mouth twisted in a familiar smile.

Malcolm.

He had been there the night Winnie died – which was impossible, because Winnie died decades before Malcolm was even born.

Still, there was no question what I was seeing.

"You really think you can fight me?" Malcolm said to me, still pushing. "Do you have any idea the resources at my disposal?"

"Malcolm!" Oliver shouted. This time, he made a move. I stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"It's all right," I said. "I can handle him."

I gazed up into my cousin's eyes, a dozen visions of him flickering like an old movie reel in my mind. Cruel eyes. Twisted smile.

_Race you, Mara,_ I heard him call to my mother's sister. She took off at a gallop, and I knew that I was seeing the final moments before she died.

I forced the visions away, and held Malcolm's gaze.

"I know what you are," I said. Though I was shaking, I was relieved at the strength in my voice. "And I know what you've done. You want to drag my name through the mud? After everything I've been through, do you really think I give a crap about my reputation? Merlyn Manor is mine; my mother willed it to me, and I don't have any plans to let it go. So, go ahead. Come for me. Send your lawyers. Do your best. I'm ready."

Malcolm started to say something, but Quentin appeared by his side. The lawyer looked every bit as pissed as Oliver, which was saying something.

"That's enough, Malcolm. Have your lawyer contact me, yadda yadda yadda. Don't come near my client again."

Malcolm looked ready to murder me then and there, his voice strangled when the words came out. "You're making a mistake."

I tipped my chin up, and refused to look away. "I don't think so."

And with that, Quentin escorted him out.

Oliver remained beside me. Roy and Dig were gone now, though I didn't know when or where they had gone. Willa had gone with Tommy and Thea in the chopper to the hospital. The world fell silent.

"Come on," Oliver said eventually. He touched my arm gently. "We should get out of here."

"Are the police coming?"

"They'll be along soon, I'm sure."

I went over to Reggie's body and sat down on the cold stones, careful not to touch the body since I assumed this was now a crime scene. I studied my uncle from my vantage, a few feet away. His eyes were closed, two neat black holes above his heart. The damage in the back would be worse; these two little holes seemed so inconsequential – not the sort of thing that could snuff out a life in the blink of an eye.

"I think I should get you back to the manor, Felicity," Oliver said, all the fury I'd heard earlier now gone. "You should get warmed up, change out of those clothes."

"I used to think they were guardian angels," I said. My voice came out monotone, as dead as the world around us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Oliver turn to look at me.

"Who?" he asked.

"The people I saw – the Merlyn girls, and their family. Ray."

He sat down beside me with surprising ease. You wouldn't think a guy with that much muscle could just plunk himself down on an old stone floor, but it didn't seem to bother Oliver. Maybe your threshold for pain, for discomfort, goes up when you know nothing can kill you, no matter how bad it seems at the time.

"When did you decide they weren't?" he asked.

I considered the question. "I don't know. Sometime after my parents – my adoptive parents – were killed. If the angels allowed that to happen, they must not be very good at their job, right?"

He grimaced, eyes drifting to the stones beneath us. "Bad things happen," he said. "Sometimes, it doesn't have anything to do with the angels."

"No. I suppose it doesn't," I agreed.

We fell silent. The seconds ticked by, while Reggie grew cold beside us and we waited for the police to come. For the nightmare to end.

But the nightmare was just beginning.


	15. Chapter 15

_So sorry for the lengthy delay in getting this next chapter up. It took a bit longer than anticipated, and then I posted on Ao3 and completely forgot that I hadn't also posted here - so, sorry about that. I have a good jump on the next chapter, though, so that one should be up either tomorrow or Monday. Thanks for reading!_

* * *

The police and forensic team swarmed the island not long after Malcolm left, and Oliver and I returned to the manor. Quentin stayed behind with the police to answer questions and deal with Reggie's body, but I knew they would have plenty of questions for me before the day was out.

I was quiet when we reached the house, my mind whirling with a thousand thoughts. I sequestered myself in my bedroom under the guise of getting some rest, but every time I closed my eyes I saw Reggie – first as he had been years ago, and then the way he'd ended up, bloodied and alone. So, instead of closing my eyes, I got out my books and my journals and the maps and sketches I'd made of the island, and laid them out on the bed. I made a list of everything that would need to be done, and then made a second list of all the people I could think of who might be able to help. Thea was at the top of the list, but I put a question mark beside her name. Who knew what she would think of me after what happened to Reggie, and even if she didn't hate my guts, I wasn't sure that Malcolm would ever let his daughter near me again.

I drew up a preliminary budget, and a schedule that spanned the next three months.

I got out a calendar I'd gotten from the Natural Resource Defense Council, and circled the summer solstice.

My birthday.

All I had to do was survive to see it.

Finally, at around four that afternoon, I emerged to find Oliver seated on the floor across from my bedroom door, back against the wall with a book open in his lap.

"You know that's kind of creepy, right?" I asked him as I stepped out of my room.

"Reading?" he asked, looking up in surprise.

"Yes, Oliver. You're sitting on a dirty hard wood floor with no cushion and you probably have been for the past three hours, so obviously the thing I was referring to was you cracking a book."

He actually looked embarrassed. "Right. Well… I was hired to protect you."

"I'm pretty sure no one would fire you if you did that from a chair."

He stood, the book still in hand. "The truth is, I was worried about you. It's been a rough twenty-four hours."

"It has," I agreed briskly, then immediately changed the subject. "Do you know if Quentin's daughter has another job on the island? Besides running the boat, I mean?"

He looked confused. "Sara?"

"Yes, sorry – I know he has another daughter, but I never met her. I'm talking about the daughter I've met."

"I think she has a couple of part-time jobs out here, I'm not sure. Why?"

"What about Roy?" I persisted. "Is he fishing, or does he do something else?"

"I think he has a side gig working for the college. And again I ask… Why, Felicity?"

"Because if I'm going to have this giant gala on the Solstice, I'll need help." I held up the notebook that was now splitting at the seams. "I've got some ideas, but there's no way I can make everything happen on my own. I need to assemble a team."

He frowned. "Maybe you should give yourself a little time before you dive into this. Reggie—"

"Is dead," I said firmly. "And I've decided, I'm not thinking about that right now. There are other things to worry about."

"There are, but that doesn't mean you can just ignore everything that's happened. You're not giving yourself any time to process."

"Because time is one luxury I can't afford to give myself, Oliver," I said. My temper flared, even though I knew none of this was his fault. "I don't know how much time I have. For all I know, Damian Dahrk could snap his fingers again and have me on my knees – or six feet under, for that matter. So, I plan to use whatever time I do have to put together the most phenomenal Solstice event Crab's Neck has ever seen." I reconsidered. "Actually, I don't know how impressive their events have been historically, so that may not seem ambitious. But trust me, I'm talking gala with a capital G."

"That's great, but—"

I stopped him with a glare. He grimaced, reconsidered, and took a long breath before he exhaled slowly, which made it seem like putting up with me was this tremendous burden. Of course, considering everything that had happened recently I couldn't really argue with that.

"That's great," he said. "Period."

I grinned. "Thank you. That's what I think, too. Do you have Roy's number? I'll talk to Quentin about Sara, and then I figure the two of them might have some ideas for others on the island who would be willing to help out. I know I have money so I can pay them, but I need to talk to Quentin about how exactly to access that money. I've been meaning to ask anyway, but it always seemed like a bad time. Or like I'm just here for my dead parents' cash. Which I'm not."

"I know that," Oliver said. He was still serious, something sad in his eyes. Which was frustrating, considering I was doing everything in my power to avoid sad right now. Or at least to not think about sad.

"You don't look very excited."

"I think you're excited enough for both of us," he said. "I just think it wouldn't be a bad thing for you to take a breath here. Acknowledge what's happened – you don't have to dwell on it if you don't want to, that's fine. But you're coming off as a little, um…" He lowered his eyes, like he was about to say something indecent. "…manic."

"Well, duh," I said immediately. "I found out yesterday that I'm doomed to die young because of an ancient curse, and my bodyguard and the guy who was the soulmate of my great great great aunt may look like supermodels, but they're actually way, _way_ past retirement age. And then, the only member of my family that I actually had nice visions of was just gunned down in front of me. If all I am is manic, frankly I think I deserve some kind of freaking award."

That, at least, earned a small smile from Oliver. "You may have a point," he conceded.

"Thank you."

He ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired, which I was guessing was bad since he was supposed to be invincible. If all this was having this kind of effect on Oliver, I could only imagine what I looked like by now.

"Okay… So, what am I supposed to do now?" he asked.

"Call Roy," I prompted. "I'd like to have a meeting first thing tomorrow and get things moving form there. Do you think Dig might help? I know he has the Legion…"

"I'll check. He stays pretty busy, but I know he was interested in the year-round garden you were talking about. I could maybe persuade him to put in a little time."

"That would be great. The more people from the island I can get on board, the less likely it is that those freak shows from the Legion that night will decide they want me dead."

Oliver frowned, but made no comment. I studied his face, trying to read him. The gravity of the day washed over me all over again.

"Who do you think was out there today?" I asked. "Do you think it was someone from the island?"

He shook his head, his frustration obvious. "I don't know. Dig is going to ask around, see if he can get some ideas."

"That's nice of him," I said, honestly surprised. "I hope that doesn't end up being a problem for him."

"Dig can handle himself," Oliver assured me. "It seems he's taken a liking to you, though. Once that happens, he won't let you down."

"Dig likes me?"

Oliver shrugged. "I told him you have a way of growing on a guy. Turns out he agrees."

Our eyes held, my cheeks warm at the compliment, but Oliver was the one to look away first. He cleared his throat, suddenly all business.

"Anyway, I'll make those calls, and you can talk to Quentin if you like."

"Good," I agreed, just as brisk. "Thanks. When does Ray get in? I want to make sure I leave time to meet with him tonight, so we can get started on the whole dredging-my-brain-for-stolen-gems thing."

"I told him what happened, and he agreed it would be better to start tomorrow—"

"What?" I demanded. "No – no way. I don't need to wait. I want to get started as soon as possible, before the curse kicks back in. Call him back—"

"Felicity—" he began.

"I want this over with."

"I know that, but right now I apparently need to protect you from yourself just as much as anything else. Last night—"

"Last night, I was dying of the curse; today, at least temporarily, that's been—"

Oliver's eyes widened suddenly, and he looked over my head at something down the hall. I stopped at the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me, and whirled to find Quentin there with a man and woman in police uniforms.

"Felicity," Quentin said stiffly. "The police are ready to take your statement."

"Of course," I said. "I was just talking to Oliver about the curse – you know, the curse all us women are burdened with. The—"

"I think they get it, Felicity," Oliver said calmly.

"Right. Of course they do. I mean – he might," I said, nodding to the male police officer before turning to the woman, even as every part of me that wasn't actively talking screamed for me to just stop, "but you probably do. Is that sexist? Sorry—that's definitely not what I was going for."

The woman smiled at me, with what seemed like genuine warmth. She had long dark blond hair and gorgeous…well, everything. "It's all right," she assured me. "I know what you meant. I'm Detective Dinah Drake, and this is my partner, Detective Billy Malone."

Detective Malone was every bit as gorgeous as Detective Drake. He had pale eyes and dark hair and a goatee and…wow. "What happened to the round, condescending guy who came here the last time there was a shooting?" I asked.

"Detective Harriday had another case," Malone said. He smiled at me, and – did I mention wow? If one of these two was supposed to be the bad cop, I wasn't sure which one it was supposed to be. "And I think the fact that we have one victim dead and another in the hospital is more than enough reason to take this seriously. I'm sure it's been a long day, but if you wouldn't mind…"

"Of course," I agreed.

"I was thinking we could do this in the study," Quentin said.

Detective Drake looked at him. "We?"

"I'm Ms. Smoak's attorney—"

"I'll be fine, Quentin," I assured him.

He frowned, but he didn't argue. I led the way back down the hall and down the stairs, to the study on the first floor. The window that had been shot out on my first day on the island had since been repaired and the room cleaned. I breathed in the smell of leather and furniture polish as I stepped over the threshold.

"We'll be right out," Detective Malone said at the door, turning to stop Oliver with a hand on his chest. Ooh. Probably not a great move. Oliver looked down at the hand, that tic thing happening in his jaw again. Malone moved his hand after a second, seeming to sense that he'd made a mistake.

"I'm here to protect Felicity," Oliver said.

"I think we've got it covered," Drake said, stepping between the two men. "We'll have questions for you after we speak with her. You can wait outside." She pushed him out the door without giving him a chance to argue.

Once the door was closed, she turned to me. "That's quite a pit bull you've got there," she noted.

"He takes his job very seriously."

"Clearly," she said. "Why don't you take a seat?"

I sat in a leather chair in front of the desk. "I'm not sure I can tell you anything everyone else hasn't already said, but I'll help any way I can."

Detective Malone took a chair and set it directly in front of me, then sat as well. Drake, however, remained standing. If there were going to be a bad cop in this scenario, I was guessing that meant she was it.

"It seems like you've had quite the ride since you arrived on Crab's Neck," he said, with sympathy in his pretty brown eyes.

"You could say that," I agreed.

"Do you have any idea who would want to hurt you, or the others in your family?"

"I have no idea. I mean, I know that some of the people on the island aren't crazy about me being here, but I couldn't give you any specific names."

"What about Ray Palmer?" Detective Drake asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

"Ray Palmer," she repeated the name more slowly, like that was the reason I was having trouble following her. "You have heard of him, haven't you? You know he lives on this island?"

"Well, yes – I mean, I know him. Or we've met, anyway. But what does he have—"

"Did you know that Ray Palmer has a history with your family?" Drake continued. "That the Palmers and the Merlyns have a longstanding feud, in fact?"

"I—"

"Take it down a notch, Dinah," Detective Malone said. "Ms. Smoak isn't a suspect."

She shot him a glare that I couldn't imagine was acting. If it was, she should give up law enforcement and head straight for Hollywood. Ideally, on the next boat.

"Do you know about the history between your family and the Palmers?" Malone asked gently.

Since it seemed unlikely that he was talking about the history where Ray Palmer and my great great great aunt Rose went to Europe to become notorious jewel thieves before being cursed by a psychotic Scottish mobster over one hundred years ago, I shook my head. Malone and Drake exchanged a glance that seemed significant, though I couldn't exactly tell how.

"Mr. Palmer's father was linked to the death of a girl who would have been you aunt," Malone explained, still gentle. "Her name was Mara Merlyn. You've heard of her?"

"Of course," I nodded, my stomach tightening for reasons I wasn't entirely sure of yet. "I thought she died in a horseback riding accident, though."

Instantly, I thought of one of the visions I'd had of Mara recently: her body broken, cradled by Ray Palmer in the moments before she died.

"She did," Drake agreed. "But it turns out she was having a fling with the senior – very senior – Mr. Palmer. He was twenty-eight at the time, about the same age that his son is now, as a matter of fact."

My brain did some quick calculating, and it didn't take long to come to the conclusion that the person they thought was Ray's father actually would have been Ray himself, since he didn't age and couldn't die and had apparently just been hanging around the Merlyn family in some way or other since Rose's death. Not this way, though - he wouldn't have had a thing with a sixteen-year-old girl, even if she looked like Rose. Right? I definitely would have seen that in one of my visions.

"And you know this how, exactly?" I asked, a bit of mettle returning to my voice.

"Malcolm Merlyn. He was a teenager at the time, but he had some concerns. He came to the police after his cousin's death."

"And did Malcolm have any proof of his allegations?" I asked, more confident now. If Malcolm Merlyn made the claim, no way was it true.

Drake frowned, and turned away. Malone shook his head. "I'm afraid not. But Mr. Palmer left the island the day after the incident and never returned. It wasn't until his son made a name for himself and moved out here that anyone even know what had become of the family."

"I see," I said. "But I don't get what any of that has to do with the Ray Palmer we know now. As I understand it, Mr. Palmer wasn't even on the island today when the shooting occurred.

"And how do you know that?" Drake asked, like I'd just revealed some big secret. I was really starting to dislike her.

"Rumor," I said coolly.

"Is there anyone else you can think of—" Malone began, but Drake cut him off. She wheeled on me, her eyes curiously intense.

"Do you know anything about Ray Palmer?" she demanded. "About how he made his money? How he spends his time?"

"He makes video games—"

"He and his family have also been implicated in some of the biggest thefts of occult antiquities in the world," she said. "From the Ming Dynasty to Nazi Germany, if something linked to the occult goes missing, Mr. Palmer is the first person the authorities look at."

The revelation had me dumbstruck. I tried to find words, some way to respond to her claim, but I had no idea where to begin.

"It's true, Felicity," Detective Malone said quietly. "More than a dozen people have been killed in these thefts. No one has been able to get close to this man for years, but for some reason his family seems to have a soft spot for the Merlyn women."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

"Your bodyguard is one of the few Mr. Palmer seems to count as a friend," Malone said, still with that same calm, quiet voice. It would have been reassuring, if not for the words he was saying. "But there has never been any love lost between Mr. Palmer and Reggie Merlyn. If he had something to do with your uncle's death, this may finally be our chance to take him down. He trusts you and Oliver…"

"And you want me to…what? Get him to confess? I told you before, I don't know the man—"

"You know him well enough to rendezvous in the woods with him," Malone said. "To spend time at his house with him. He doesn't invite just anyone up there."

I stared at the detective. Any sense of ease I might have felt with him vanished in a second, and I stiffened in my chair. "How do you know that?"

"He's under surveillance," Drake said, without a trace of remorse. "If you spend time with him, we'll know about it. Which means if he ever tried to hurt you, we could protect you."

"He wouldn't do that," I said, my voice wooden. I thought of the visions I'd had of Ray over the years: the man who had given me comfort when I was at my loneliest, the man whose smile brought me peace. The man whose laughter was one of the earliest sounds I could remember. "You don't know him – you don't know what you're talking about. I appreciate you trying to find the person who murdered my uncle, and I'll help in whatever way I can. But you're looking at the wrong man. If you really want to know who I think could be behind these shootings, I have one name for you: Malcolm Merlyn."

"Your cousin," Malone said, skepticism plain in his voice.

"He lost a lot when I came on the scene. If Reggie and I are both out of the way, he gets controlling interest of Merlyn Enterprises back, not to mention this estate."

"His daughter was caught in the crossfire – she could have been killed," Drake argued.

"But she wasn't," I said. "What better way to throw suspicion off himself than to have someone he loves injured?"

"Does this mean you're not helping us with Palmer?" Drake asked abruptly, clearly not interested in my theory.

"That's exactly what it means."

"Felicity—" Malone began. I was surprised at how troubled he looked, his brow furrowed and his eyes locked on mine. What they were saying made no sense, though; they had to be wrong. I shook my head, and stood.

"If you have more questions for me, maybe we should continue this with my lawyer after all. If not, I would like to be excused. I have things to do."

"Of course," Drake said, her voice as cold as January. "You're free to go."

Malone stood, and withdrew a business card from his wallet. He scrawled something on the back and pushed it into my hand. "That's my personal cell number. If you see something suspicious, or you have questions, or you need…anything, please call me."

"Thank you," I said. I stared at the card, fear running through me now. Uncertainty. What did I know about any of the people on this island, other than that nothing was as it seemed and there were an awful lot of people who stood to gain with me gone? I swallowed past the emotion, and met Malone's eye again. "I'll call if I learn anything."

Detective Drake ushered her partner out of the room without another word, seeming to take no solace from the fact that I had at least agreed to contact him if there problems. Something was going on with her, clearly, but I had no idea what. I had a hunch that whatever it was, this thing between her and Ray Palmer was personal.

And I wanted nothing to do with it.


	16. Chapter 16

**_Okay, so we finally have some movement of the Oliver-and-Felicity variety in this chapter - I know it's been kind of a slow build up till now. Sorry for the delay in getting this up, and thanks as ever for reading!_**

* * *

Once the detectives were done with me, they had me send Oliver in. He looked at me for a second as he was passing, searching my face for some clue to what had just happened, but thankfully he didn't ask any questions. I'm not sure what I would have said if he had. Once he was in the study with the detectives, I actually debated listening through the door for about two minutes. If Quentin hadn't been there, looking much more cop-like than lawyer-y, I probably would have.

As it was, though, with Quentin watching over me all I could do was pace. The detectives only questioned Oliver for a few minutes, much less time than I'd been in there, and they both looked frustrated when he emerged from the study. Oliver seemed carefully blank, giving absolutely nothing away when his eyes met mine outside the door.

We remained in the hallway, Oliver and me standing close but not looking at each other, while Quentin and the police wrapped things up.

"I think at this point you've talked to pretty much everyone," Quentin told Drake. She frowned.

"That's our call, not yours," she said. "We actually still need to interview Dr. Willa McLaren. Where can we find her?"

Quentin looked surprised – and not in a good way. "What do you need to talk to her for? She wasn't there when the shooting took place."

"But she knows the island," Drake said calmly. "This is a murder investigation now, Mr. Lance. You were a cop once – you know how this goes."

"Yeah, of course," he agreed, though he didn't look pleased. "She's at the hospital now, though. She went with Thea, since she's the family physician."

"And how long has she been with the Merlyn family?" Detective Malone asked. I noticed that Oliver had tensed at the line of questioning, and wondered exactly where they were going with this.

"I don't know – about three years or so?" Quentin said, looking at Oliver.

"About that, yes," Oliver agreed.

"And how did she come to work for the Merlyns?" Drake asked. "I mean – she's Scottish, right? And not exactly at the top of her field. Not the first person you'd think of to oversee the medical needs of one of the most prominent families in America."

"I recommended her," Oliver said stiffly.

"How did you know the doctor?" Malone asked. He wasn't nearly as friendly with Oliver as he had been with me, I noticed.

"Our families are from the same region of Scotland," Oliver said.

"Inverness?" Malone pressed. "Funny, you don't have much of an accent."

"I moved to America years ago," Oliver said. "The accent faded."

"And remind me how many years ago that was," Drake said. "We weren't able to find much on you, it turns out."

"I'm sorry, I thought you had finished with our interview," Oliver said. His eyes were cold, his manner impassive. He was already an intimidating man, but he seemed that much more so when his eyes went dead like this.

"You didn't give us much when we spoke," Malone said. Yikes. Yeah, Detective Malone definitely liked me better than Oliver. That wouldn't be hard, though; the way the two men had squared off, I was guessing Malone would take a rattlesnake over Oliver.

"I told you what I know about the shooting," Oliver said. "I'm not clear on what these other questions have to do with finding the person who murdered Reggie Merlyn this afternoon."

"We decide what's relevant, Mr. Knight," Malone said. He took a step toward Oliver, and didn't even look intimidated at the way Oliver glared at him. Which was impressive, I thought. I was intimidated, and Oliver wasn't even looking at me.

"I think I'll take that as a cue that whatever else you have to ask me, I'd like you to do through my lawyer," Oliver said He looked at Quentin, who nodded.

"Absolutely," Quentin said. "I represent Ms. Smoak and Mr. Knight. If you've got questions for them, you can contact me from here on out."

"That's an interesting choice for people who say they want justice," Drake said.

I started to argue that point, but a look from Quentin made me stop. When no one took the bait, Malone and Drake exchanged another loaded glance before they packed up their things and – finally – headed out.

The second they were out the door, I grabbed Oliver's arm and hauled him back toward the study.

"I need to talk to you," I said through gritted teeth.

"When you two are through," Quentin said, "we should have a conversation, too. I need to have some idea what the story is in all this before I go talking to the cops about it, or else I'll end up—"

"We'll make sure you're not disbarred," Oliver said, cutting him off. "We just stick to the truth." He hesitated. "Mostly."

Quentin kind of laughed at that, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure – that's great. In that case, I'm not worried about being disbarred so much as being thrown in the loony bin."

"We'll figure it out," Oliver said. He sounded a lot more reassuring than I felt at the moment. He nodded to the study, indicating I should go in first. How the hell could he be so calm?

The second the door was closed, I turned on him.

"What don't I know about Ray Palmer?" I demanded, straight out of the gate.

"You need to be more specific," he said coolly. "The man's been alive since 1898. I'm guessing there are a lot of things you don't know about him."

"Don't get cute," I said, advancing on him until we were barely a foot away. "You know what I'm talking about. The police said he's suspected of being involved in a whole bunch of thefts of occult artifacts. What's that about? Is he still a thief? I thought he just made video games and lived up in his mansion trying to figure out how to break the curse – nobody ever mentioned that he's actively still a criminal."

"Ray is his own man," Oliver said. "I barely saw him for years. That changed when I started working for the Merlyns, but not by that much. He has a busy life that has nothing to do with me."

"Bullshit," I said. Oliver's eyebrows went up in surprise.

"Excuse me?" he asked, his eyes flashing with anger.

"You heard me," I bit back, refusing to back down. "You two have something going on – there's something you're not telling me about this whole curse thing or whatever it's going to take to undo it or…something. If he's stealing occult artifacts, does that mean he's into the same stuff that Damian Dahrk is into? Is that the real reason he and Rose tried to steal the butterfly stone?"

"I think you need to have a conversation with Ray about all this," Oliver said. He was cool again, which only served to make me madder. "I don't know the answer to a lot of your questions; the ones I can answer, I don't think it's my place to."

"Why not?" I demanded. "You're in this whole thing, right? You were cursed right alongside Ray and Rose – which reminds me, why were you cursed too? What were you doing at the train station that night? How did Rose know you – how were you there to save her when she got shot, when Ray wasn't?"

"It's a long story."

"Yeah, I get that – and I don't care. Trust me, I don't think I'll be bored. How did you and Ray meet?"

The words were barely out of my mouth before I heard a knock in the distance, at the front door. I jumped half a foot, heart leaping to my throat.

"Will you calm down?" Oliver said, for the first time starting to lose patience.

"Easy for you to say," I hissed. "How long have you known about all this stuff? I just get used to one insane secret, and a dozen others are dropped on my head."

"So maybe it's not such a great idea for me to tell you about still more of them," he countered. Touché. I grimaced.

"I can handle it, Oliver."

He sighed. Before he could actually tell me anything, however, there was another knock at the door – this time, the study door. Even Oliver jumped this time, then swore under his breath. "I'm getting as bad as you are."

"Excuse me, Miss Felicity," Raisa said as she opened the door. "But there is someone here to see you."

Someone she wasn't happy about, based on the frown lines and the added darkness to her already-black-eyes.

"Someone…who?" I asked.

"I know you asked me to wait until tomorrow, Oliver," Ray said from behind Raisa, breezing past her and into the study like he owned the place. "But given everything we're up against, I thought it might be a good idea to get a jumpstart on things. I'm sure you're on the same page about that, aren't you, Felicity?" he asked me.

I just stared at him for a second, blinking stupidly. All I could think of were the things the detectives had said about him. He'd been involved in the thefts back in the 1920s, but what had he been doing since then? Could he possibly be at fault for the deaths Detective Drake mentioned?

Before I could ask a single question, Ray made his way across the small room with his eyes locked on mine, and took my hand as soon as he was close enough. I tried to back away, but he held fast.

"What the hell are you doing?" Oliver demanded.

"Miss Felicity!" Raisa said.

And then, they vanished.

_We need muscle for this, Rose,_ Ray said. They were outside – we were outside – somewhere that definitely was not Crab's Neck. The sky was gray, an endless expanse of moors all around them. As all my visions had been since this morning, this was crystal clear. _I've been checking up on this guy,_ Ray continued. _He's good. He can help us. With a job this big, there's no way we can do it alone. And besides, he knows Dahrk. He'll be able to get us in._

_He's a Neanderthal,_ Rose said coolly. _I don't care who recommends him – we don't know anything about him._

_Just meet him,_ Ray insisted.

_Do I have a choice?_

_Don't be like that,_ he said. He touched her face, his dark eyes taking her in, and I was lost for a moment at the pure adoration I saw there. He worshipped her. _You know I'll do whatever you want me to. Say the word, and I'll tell him no. We'll figure out another way. You asked me for the stone, and I've already told you, Rosie: ask for the moon, and I'll lay it at your feet._

She smiled at him, the same adoration reflected back. She might be a spoiled brat, but there was no question in my mind that Rose's feelings for Ray were one hundred percent genuine. _All right, fine. I'll meet him. But I make no promises beyond that._

He grinned at her. _That's all I ask._

He stepped aside, and I gasped.

Oliver appeared on the hillside, striding toward them in dirty trousers and a stained shirt. His hair was longer, pulled back in a ponytail, but otherwise there was no question… This was definitely the man I knew.

_Rose, meet Oliver Knight,_ Ray said. Oliver stopped a few feet from the two of them, clearly uncertain. I studied his eyes in the vision – this was the first chance I'd had to get a good look at him. They were the clear blue that I knew, but there was something different about them. Something both lighter and darker at the same time; the kind of man who knew how to have a good time, but already had his demons. What were those demons, I wondered?

"Felicity!" Oliver said, back in the present.

I shook my head as the study, the present, came rushing back to me.

Raisa was gone, and I was seated on an overstuffed loveseat in the corner of the room, Oliver beside me. Ray was on the other side of the room, and he didn't look happy about that.

"I'm all right," I said.

"What did you see?" Ray asked immediately. He advanced on me again, despite a warning look from Oliver. "The visions should be clearer now, and Dahrk gave me some ideas for how we can guide them more effectively to get the information we need."

I shook my head, trying to get my wits about me once more.

"Take it easy," Oliver said soothingly, shooting one of his killer looks at Ray. "We don't have to rush this."

"We do, actually," Ray said. He stepped forward despite the look on Oliver's face, his focus on me. "I know Oliver's convinced you're made of glass, but we can't afford that kind of fragility right now. If you want to survive, we need to start working on this now."

"I'm fine," I said, sitting up.

"What did you see?" Ray pressed.

"We – I mean, you and Rose… Um, I think you were in Scotland. It was the first time you introduced Rose to Oliver."

He studied me a moment, with an intensity that made me uneasy. "Interesting," was all he said, however. "Anything else?"

"No, that was it."

"We need to find some things that might trigger specific memories," he said. "Photos, mementos from the past…"

"There's a family archive," I said immediately.

"Hang on," Oliver said. He stepped between us, and Ray shot him a killing glare. "I already told you, it's been a long day after an even longer night. If we're going to do this tonight, at least let her get some food first."

"He's right," I said. I think those two words shocked Oliver more than anything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, but I wasn't about to become some mindless bimbo who needed someone to tell her what to eat and when to sleep. "I haven't eaten since breakfast, and this kind of thing requires energy. Just let me grab something, and we can go to the library and look through the family archives afterward. Okay?"

Ray frowned. "Have you eaten?" I asked him. "I mean – I know you guys are immortal or whatever, but you still get hungry, right? Raisa cooks when she's stressed out, and I'm guessing after today she's been whipping up a storm in there."

"You want me to stay for dinner?" Ray asked doubtfully.

Oliver looked equally skeptical.

"It's not like anyone from the Merlyn family will be here," I argued. "I mean, apart from me. So… What do you say?"

"I've never actually been invited to dinner at the Merlyn home before."

"Not in a hundred and twenty years?" I asked. The thought made me sad. "Well, you're invited now. I'll just go tell Raisa to set an extra place."

I left the two men, pausing outside the door to see if they might say something I wasn't supposed to hear. I know: eavesdropping is tacky, but you try being cursed to die with two gorgeous hundred-plus-year-old fellow curse-ees by your side, and tell me you don't get a little desperate for clues. Ray started to say something, but Oliver shushed him immediately. Spoilsport.

* * *

Raisa had indeed been cooking the holy bejeezus out of Merlyn Manor. Pot roast with carrots, onions, and potatoes – the smell alone was enough to make my mouth water. After everything that had happened over the course of the weekend, you would think I wouldn't have the stomach to eat a thing, but tonight I was ravenous. I wondered briefly if that was a side effect of Damian Dahrk's intervention, and secretly hoped not. I can pack on the pounds perfectly well on my own, thanks very much – I don't need a wizard tipping the scales.

Willa had stuck around as well, which made for a respectable showing in the Merlyn dining room. I sat at the head of the table tonight at Quentin's insistence, while Quentin and Willa sat together at one side, Ray and Oliver on the other. For an ancient billionaire, Ray seemed kind of awed by the grandeur of the room. He kept looking around, asking about different pieces of furniture or works of art. Quentin knew the answers to most of his questions, so I was content to let them talk.

About halfway through the meal, however, conversation began to lag. There was a white rhino in the room that no one seemed willing to address, but I've never been very good at not saying the one thing everyone wants unsaid.

"Sooo…Quentin," I began. "How did you and Willa happen to start talking about…um…"

Willa and Quentin both looked like I'd just asked whether Quentin was into light spanking, while Oliver just grimaced. Ray, however, looked up with interest.

"Yes, Quentin. How did you and Willa start talking about that?"

"Well, uh…" Quentin glanced at Willa, and shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I knew something was up, what with you looking exactly like your father and your grandfather and everybody just kind of disappearing once they hit thirty, but I guess I probably wouldn't have figured it out if Willa—"

"I told him," Willa said abruptly. And then, she totally blew my mind by leaning over and kissing him – right on the mouth. "We'd been shagging for a good few months and I kept it to myself, but then after Moira and Robert were killed, I just decided I'd had enough of secrets."

Quentin went a little red, though somehow he still managed to look pleased at the same time.

"You don't have to look so shocked," Willa said to me. "Surely a pretty lass like yourself knows what it's like. Lies are fine if you're just sharin' your bed with a lout who'll be gone next morning, but it seemed to me we were past that."

"Sure," I said with a sage nod, though I didn't actually have the first idea what it was like. "I'm not shocked. I think it's great – you and Quentin, I mean. I didn't realize anything was going on between you." I looked at Oliver. "Did you know?"

He shrugged. "There have been a few times when I came in and could have timed it better – Willa with her shirt half off and her skirt up around her waist told a pretty clear story."

Quentin shot daggers at Oliver with his eyes, but Willa just laughed. "Too true. After all these years on the planet, you'd think you'd be better at knockin'."

"What do you intend to do with the information?" Ray asked, interrupting the banter.

Quentin shrugged. "I don't know that I intend to do anything. I've known for going on a month now, and so far all I've done is question my sanity a few times. Other than that, I got no intentions at all."

"That's good," Ray said. He managed one of those genial smiles he was so good at. "Then, I guess our little circle is expanding."

"It looks that way," Oliver agreed.

Silence fell after that, and this time hung around in fits and starts until the end of the meal. When dinner was done, Ray, Oliver, and I went to the library after only a brief discussion. My mind was racing until the moment when I got through the thick oak door, and the smell of old books and aged leather enveloped me. I loved that room. I closed my eyes, breathing it in.

"This is beautiful," Ray said reverently.

"It is," I agreed – which didn't seem like bragging since I had nothing to do with it.

I opened my eyes, and took in the sight. It was a huge space, with vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, little nooks with comfy chairs, and – my favorite – a windowseat overlooking the grounds. On sunny days, I could settle on that seat and happily stay for hours. I was sure my Merlyn ancestors had done exactly that; I could feel it every time I sat there, sun warming my face, listening to the chatter of my fellow butterfly girls.

"You've never been here before?" I asked Ray, pulling myself from my thoughts.

He wandered among the bookshelves, his hand trailing along the spines. "No," he said. "When I was with Rose, I wasn't exactly welcome in this place. My grandfather worked in the stables, so that was bad enough; Byron Merlyn wasn't the kind of man to welcome the help into his home." He shrugged. "The fact that my father was a thief made him doubly determined to keep me away from his daughter."

The reminder of Ray's father made me think of what the detectives had said. Was he still a thief, as they'd said? I started to ask him, but clamped my mouth shut at a warning look from Oliver. Ray glanced between the two of us, sensing the tension. The briefest of frowns touched his lips before it vanished.

"It's getting late," Oliver said. "We should probably get started."

It was only eight o'clock, but I knew I would have an early morning the next day, and everything that had happened was finally starting to wear me down. I nodded.

"You're probably right. So – how do we do this?"

"The archives?" Ray prompted.

"Right."

I turned toward a nook in the far back. Oliver started to follow, but Ray stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Why don't you give us a little time?" he suggested. "I think it will be better if there are no distractions."

Oliver frowned, and Ray turned his familiar brown eyes on me. Y_ou know I'll never hurt you, Rose,_ I heard him promise, another echo from the past.

"It's all right," I told Oliver. Despite the reassurances of that past Ray, I couldn't ignore the apprehension I felt when Oliver walked away. He hesitated at the library door, his hand hovering at the knob.

"If you need anything…"

"She'll be fine," Ray said.

I nodding, indicating that he should go. A moment later, Ray and I were alone.

"He's certainly taking his job seriously with you," Ray said. The tone was light enough, but there was something underlying it that made me tense. "You should watch out – Oliver's been known to be quite the charmer. Women always seem to like all that brooding – I never really understood why. But someone like you, Felicity…"

He shifted so that we were facing one another, his eyes lingering on my face. "He could do a lot of damage to someone as trusting as you. Be careful. It looks like both of you are getting a bit…attached."

"There's nothing between us," I said automatically. As soon as the words were out, I regretted them; they sounded defensive, and patently untrue. Ray touched my face. My eyes sank shut at his touch, a memory surging up from the depths.

_There's nothing between us, Ray,_ Rose said. She was older now, maybe all of twenty, dressed in a knee-length blue dress, her hair in a bob.

_So you keep saying,_ Ray replied. He turned to face her, and fear ran through me – cold and pure, jagged-edged. Not my fear, though – Rose's.

_You wouldn't be the first to fall for his looks. That fake smile, the bedroom-blue eyes. Oliver has more admirers than I can count, Rose._

_Oliver is married,_ she told him coolly. _And even if that weren't the case, I'm not one of those admirers. You're my husband – I love you. Once this job is finished, I want nothing to do with him._

In an instant, Ray's face changed in the vision. The smile returned, and with it the warmth to his brown eyes. _Good. I'm sorry for suspecting anything, Rose. You know I would do anything for you._

The vision faded. I opened my eyes to find myself seated at the book nook, Ray watching me anxiously.

"What did you see?" he asked immediately.

I wanted to ask about Oliver – about the revelation that he'd been married. Something warned me that would be the wrong thing to say, though. "I saw you and Rose," I said after a second. "You were arguing about Oliver."

He hesitated. I thought he would be angry; I tensed, in fact, preparing for the reaction. Instead, he broke into a grin. "Triggered by the conversation we were having, then. You went straight to that scene?"

"I – yeah," I said with a nod. "I guess so."

He straightened, and walked away. "That's good – it's excellent, actually. We can look through the archives, but ultimately I'm not sure they'll be necessary. What we need isn't something to bring you back to your childhood – we need something that will bring you back to that night in Inverness."

"Their childhood," I corrected. He looked confused. "You said, 'What we need isn't something to bring you back to your childhood.' But it's not my childhood – I'm not any of those girls." I studied him. "You do know that, right?"

Something flickered in his eyes. Anger? Disappointment? I couldn't read it, and then it was gone and he smiled his smooth, easy grin once more. "Of course. It's just hard keeping it all straight, that's all. But I know exactly who you are, Felicity. You never need to worry about that."

We shifted to the archives from there, but Ray was right - all they triggered were scenes from the girls' childhoods. At first, the visions seemed to make sense: look at a photo of Winnie, and something related to her and that particular photo would appear. But as I got more and more tired, the visions became less clear, less linear.

At just past ten o'clock, my eyes bleary and my back sore, I paused at a photo of Mara Merlyn. It was near the end of her life, a picture taken of her grinning from the back of a gorgeous chestnut mare.

I closed my eyes.

_You can't tell anyone,_ Mara whispered. I was in my bedroom – her bedroom, at the time. She lay in bed with her sister in the dark – Moira. My mother. _Daddy will kill me._

_Daddy __**should**__ kill you,_ Moira hissed. I felt the warmth of the blankets, the closeness of our secrets, and stared into my mother's young eyes. _Ray Palmer is ages older than you. What are you even thinking?_

I knew you wouldn't understand, Moira said, a pout in her voice. _He said that no one would, and he was right. Ray says having younger siblings means I had to grow up fast. He understands me in ways no one else ever will._

A knock on the door interrupted the conversation. Mara huffed unhappily. _Three guesses who that is,_ she whispered to her sister.

_Come in, Reggie,_ my mother said sweetly.

Reggie opened the door and stood there, framed in the hallway light. He was so small – five or six, in red footed pajamas, his dark hair wild and curly. _I can't sleep,_ he sniffed.

Mara frowned, but Moira sat up and stretched out her hand. _Want to come in with us?_

He nodded eagerly, and raced for the bed without waiting for further invitation. He had a stuffed bear with him, and I held my breath when he looked into Mara's eyes. Into _my_ eyes.

_Mom and Dad don't understand, right, Mara?_ he said, in his little boy's voice. _But us three – we know. Because we're in the magic circle – the sisters and the brother, the triad. Nobody can ever change that._

When the vision faded, I was crying. Not small tears, either – these were big, ugly, horrible tears that fell like they would never stop. I couldn't even think about what Mara had said about Ray Palmer. I would deal with that later.

For now, all I could think about was Reggie. Reggie and Mara and Moira – all three of them dead now. He had been the last of the magic circle. The triad. How horrible must it have been, how lonely, when he learned that Moira was gone too?

"What the hell did you do to her?" Oliver demanded. I hadn't even heard him come in. Ray and I were seated at a table at the back of the library, photo albums spread out in front of us. Ray looked up, looking so horrified it might have been funny if everything weren't so damned tragic.

"Nothing," Ray said. He held up his hands. "We were looking at photos, and then she had a vision and just started…this." He started to pat my arm but I cringed away, unable to contemplate yet another vision just then.

"I'm okay," I sobbed. "I just…Reggie…" And then I lost it again. Both men traded a helpless look.

"Maybe I should go," Ray said.

"You think?" Oliver said dryly. "Go on. I'll take care of her."

"Tomorrow morning—" Ray began.

I shook my head and managed to pull it together enough to explain that I was working on the gardens during the day. Sort of. Ray looked at Oliver, baffled.

"The gardens," he said impatiently. "She's meeting with Roy to start on the landscaping."

Ray looked like he was going to argue with that, but stopped at a glare from Oliver. Instead, he nodded on a sigh. "Tomorrow night, then. I hope you feel better, Felicity."

When he was gone, I tried to pick up the mess of photos left behind but all I did was knock half of them on the floor, which made me start crying all over again. Which kind of made me laugh because…dude. When had I become such a mess?

Oliver got down on the floor with me and stilled my hands in his. I looked at him. "Felicity," he said softly. "This can wait until later. I think you could use some sleep."

I nodded dumbly. "Yeah," I sniffed. "You might be right."

He guided me out with his hand steady at the small of my back, and remained there all the way to my bedroom. I thought again of the three siblings, crowded in that bed whispering secrets and pacts.

All of them gone now.

"I don't want to go in there," I whispered, my hand on the doorknob. My eyes were dry now, the tears gone. Reggie's pallid face, eyes gone wide, flashed through my mind. I managed a shuddering breath before I looked at Oliver. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Our eyes held, that familiar storm in a sea of blue before me. "I could get Willa," he said quietly.

I shook my head, my eyes never leaving his. "I don't want Willa."

I rose up on my toes, my hands fisted in the front of his shirt. Oliver froze. Tension ran through him when my lips found his. He didn't move.

A second passed.

Two.

And still, he just stood there – frozen.

Mortified, I started to pull away.

Only then did he come to life.

As though he'd lost some inner battle, he pulled me back to him with a ragged sigh. One hand fell to my hair, holding me still as our mouths crashed together once more. He pulled me closer, deepening the kiss. His tongue pressed past my lips and he spun us and pressed me back against my bedroom door, his body solid, searing against mine. The intensity took my breath away; for the first time in my life, the past disappeared.

He pulled away first, resting his forehead against mine. "Felicity," he said softly. I liked the way he said it, almost like it was a prayer. "This is a bad idea."

I kept my hands at his sides, my heart hammering. "Why?"

He did one of those huff-laughs that I was starting to love. "Do you want a list?"

"Definitely not."

We stayed that way for a few seconds, forehead to forehead, my heart beating hard, his hand still fisted gently in my hair. "Please, Oliver," I finally whispered. "Don't make me spend the night alone." It cost something to say the words, but at the moment it wasn't as much as it would have cost for me to go into that room on my own.

His nodded, the movement so slight I might have imagined it, and his hand shifted to the doorknob. "Ray can't know," he whispered to me, his eyes burning into mine.

I started to argue, but then thought of Ray's conversation with Rose about Oliver; about how intense he got every time he saw the two of us looking at each other. "I know," I whispered back.

I followed him inside.


	17. Chapter 17

It only took about twenty seconds once Oliver and I were in the room for me to realize I may not have thought this through. We were still standing close, but no longer touching; the gap between us felt monumental.

"I – um – I should change."

"Felicity—"

"I'll be right back." I grabbed clean pajamas from the dresser and made for the door…only to find Oliver standing in front of it, arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes were darker than usual, but otherwise he looked a universe cooler than I felt at the moment.

"I think we should talk first."

"Oh." I stared at him, my mind a complete blank. "Maybe you should go first. I think that kiss broke my brain."

A fleeting look of pride crossed his face, then vanished. "It was a good kiss," he said softly. The butterflies in my stomach vanished. I knew that tone.

"But…" I prompted.

He wet his lips. Ran a hand through his short hair. Sighed. "But now isn't the best time to be starting something. There's the No Romance clause in your agreement, for one thing. And you have a hell of a lot on your plate." He paused, saving the big one for last. "And Ray…"

"Ray was married to an ancestor of mine a century ago," I said. "I don't get why it matters who I date now. Yes, I look like Rose – I'm sorry, but so do like a million other WASPs across the country. Does that mean you can't date them, either?"

"No," he said, with a soft laugh. "I think he'd probably be fine with that. But you…" He hesitated. "Did you ask him about what happened in Scotland? About Inverness, or what came after?"

"No," I admitted. Since the possibility of Oliver and I ripping each other's clothes off seemed to be off the table for the moment, I relaxed and flopped back onto the bed. "I have a million questions, but I couldn't bring myself to ask any of them. Something about him just…I don't know. Freaks me out."

He sat on the edge of the bed beside me, the two of us still not touching. "Funny," he said. "I'm usually the one who scares people."

I sat up and looked at him frankly. "You don't scare me." I searched his face, and bit my lip before I said anything more. Oliver's gaze darkened, locked on my mouth. "Though if you're going to look at me that way…"

"Sorry. Stop doing that thing with your mouth, and I will."

"This thing?" I asked, all innocence as I sank my teeth into my bottom lip again. Oliver sort of growled, which was sexy on a whole new plane than I'd ever known existed till that moment. He held my gaze, something dangerous in his eyes.

"Keep it up, lassie," he said quietly. A Scottish burr returned to his voice, nearly taking my breath away.

I cleared my throat and lowered my eyes, my cheeks burning, but then pulled it together and met his gaze once more. "I'm not afraid of you, Oliver," I said.

"Good. Though I don't know that that's a good thing – the truth is, I'm the last person you should trust."

"Ray said you could hurt me," I recalled.

"He was right," he said simply. This time, I couldn't help but look away. Oliver reached out, guiding my face up once more with a gentle hand at my chin. "I'm trying to be a better man – I've been trying, for a while now. But…" He shook his head, a smile touching his lips. "You took me by surprise, Felicity Smoak. I may be a better man than I was, but I don't know that I'll ever be good enough for a woman like you."

I blinked at him, trying to process the words. The man was a god. A hero. Gorgeous, in a very Playgirl-centerfold kind of way. He'd saved my life multiple times by now - and now he was telling me _he_ wasn't good enough for _me?_

"If you don't want me to kiss you again, you should probably avoid saying things like that," I said.

His smile widened. "Did I say I didn't want you to kiss me again?"

"You said it wasn't a good idea," I pointed out.

"Oh. Right. I almost forgot." Still with that smile. God, he was killing me. Things stayed tense and quiet and nearly bursting with sexual tension for about sixty seconds before I let out a long breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

"Will you close your eyes?" I asked.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because I don't know what's going to happen between us but these jeans feel gross, so I'd like to change into my PJs and you wouldn't let me leave the room before, and now the bathroom feels a million miles away."

The smile became a grin, a spark of laughter in his eyes. "Fair enough." He closed his eyes.

I shimmied out of my jeans and sweater, shivering in the cool air. When I glanced at Oliver, his hands rested palm-down on his thighs, his eyes still closed. I couldn't read his expression. Probably for the best, I thought. I'd chosen my kittens-and-lasers flannel pajamas, which honestly were probably the least ridiculous sleepwear I owned. At some point, maybe I should consider a trip to Victoria's Secret.

I pulled on my laser kitten bottoms, then yanked an old Oregon State sweatshirt over my head. So…definitely no sex tonight. Or possibly ever.

"Okay," I said. "You can open your eyes."

He did, and smiled at sight of the kittens. "Nice."

"You sure you want to pass this up?" I asked, trying to be light. Oliver's eyes lingered on mine yet again. The man was a genius at eye contact.

"No," he said softly. "I'm not sure at all."

I closed my eyes. "That's not fair."

"Sorry. You want me to be honest though, right?"

"I do," I agreed.

I stood, and pulled back the blankets on my bed. Oliver was still sitting on the edge, but hopped up quickly.

"What are you doing?"

"It's cold in here," I explained, then yawned. "And it's possible I might be getting a little tired."

"Then I should go."

I caught his hand and held tight before he could move. "Could you stay a little longer? I know you can't spend the night in here – you deserve a good night's sleep as much as the next guy. But I just…"

He squeezed my hand. And then, to my surprise, he moved to the other side of the bed and lay down.

"Is this all right?" he asked quietly. I rolled over to look at him. My Oliver, now just inches away. He rolled so we were face to face.

"This is all right," I said.

He reached out and pushed the hair back from my face. My eyes sank shut as he continued to stroke my hair.

"I had one of my visions," I said. "When I was with Ray. A vision of Rose and Ray fighting about you. She said you were married."

His hand paused for an instant, then fell away completely. I looked at him again. The bedside lamp was on, casting his face in shadow, but he was still clear beside me. I'd never felt closer to anyone – like I could see straight into his soul.

"Were you married, Oliver?"

He nodded, just barely. "I was."

I considered that, a million questions immediately springing to mind. "Did you have children?"

A ghost of a smile, tortured and raw, touched his lips. "One. A girl – Abigail."

"What happened to them?"

The pain on his face was so pure I felt it run straight through me. He took a deep breath. I expected him to put me off, tell me to go to sleep. He did neither.

"They died," he said. "There was a fire – about a year after everything with Dahrk. I wasn't home. Neither of them got out alive."

My eyes filled. He traced the track of one of my tears with his finger, his touch feather-light on my skin.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice just a whisper.

"Because you aren't."

"I ran out of tears years ago, I think," he said seriously, that sad smile touching his lips once more. "I still think about them, though. Abigail especially. Every day, I wonder…"

"How old was she when the fire…?"

"Six. We conceived during the war – I was a soldier. I was captured by the Germans; this was WWI, 1916. After six months, they released me and I was sent back to Inverness. I met Mary, and…well." He shrugged.

"Mary was your wife?"

"Aye," he agreed, and I smiled at the word. I could definitely get used to Scottish Oliver. "Though not at the time. We got together, and then I shipped out again. By the time the war was over, Abigail was a year old. I married her mother. Not because I loved her – we barely knew each other. But I wanted to be a father. Wanted to be a good husband."

"And were you? A good husband?"

He shook his head, pure self-loathing in his eyes. "I was shit. Drank too much, cheated on her… Once the war was over, everything went wrong. I didn't know who I was. I had a thousand scars – some visible, some not – and all these expectations for what should happen next. I wasn't sleeping; wasn't eating. Couldn't find a job."

"And that's how you hooked up with Ray?"

"We met at a bar one night in Inverness. I'd been working security for Damian Dahrk… had gotten close with the family." The way he paused before he said 'close' set something off in my head.

"Damian's daughter," I interrupted. "What was her name – Helena?"

He smiled a little at that. The past disappeared from his eyes, and he came back to me for a second. "You remember too much."

"Tell me about it," I agreed, rolling my eyes. I snuggled deeper into the blanket, humming contentedly when Oliver's hand returned to my cheek. "So… You and Helena had an affair. Is that why Rose hated her?"

Oliver looked surprised. "What makes you say that?"

I shrugged. "Just a feeling I get. When Rose was talking about you to Ray in my vision – when they were fighting – I could feel her fear. She was afraid of him – or afraid of something, anyway. Maybe him finding something out." I studied him frankly. "Did you sleep with Rose, too? I mean…it sounds like you kind of got around. Were you in love with her?"

There was no confrontation in my voice – seriously, this was a hundred years ago. Mostly, I just wanted to finally know the story.

This time when Oliver spoke, his eyes never strayed from mine. There was sadness there, maybe a little regret, but I didn't get the sense that he was hiding anything.

"No. Nothing ever happened between Rose and me, though she had gotten it in her head that…" He wet his lips, looking uncomfortable. "She thought she was in love with me. But I – I was in love with Helena by then. I was technically still married to Mary, but she and I rarely saw each other. Never talked. I went to the house to take care of Abigail two days a week while Mary went out, and I gave them whatever money I earned, but… I was with Helena, for all intents and purposes."

"So why would you steal from her?"

"I didn't know that was the plan."

My eyes widened, and he grimaced.

"I know – how stupid can you be, right? The original plan was to take a different necklace from another woman, the wife of one of Dahrk's rivals, at a party he was throwing at his castle. I'm not sure when Rose decided she had to have Helena's stone instead. There's no way I would have gone along with it, had I known."

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, really. My part was to create a diversion, distract the guards. Even though the woman was a rival, Damian wouldn't have wanted something to happen on his watch – I knew he would be pissed, but Helena was always good at making him see things her way."

His eyes grew distant. I slipped mine closed, picturing events as they unfolded.

I don't know exactly when his memories shifted to Rose's visions – it happened gradually, until Oliver's soothing voice was lost in the background.

And suddenly, I was back at the bar.

On the pool table, my legs spread, a man hovering over me with his pants unbuckled. He was going to rape me, and there was nothing I could do.

_Let her go_, a familiar voice growled, with a decidedly less familiar, thick Scottish brogue. The crowd parted, though the man above Rose didn't move.

_Wait your turn, kid,_ the man above me said. He was huge, with a thick black beard and penetrating black eyes, and an Australian accent I hadn't noticed before.

Oliver stood behind him, larger than life, a knife clutched in one hand. I scanned the room. Ray was battered and bloodied, unconscious in the corner – barely recognizable.

_I'm not looking for a turn – I don't need to force anyone to spread her legs for me,_ Oliver said. He strode into the room. All it took was one look from him at the other men holding Rose down, and they released her.

_I don't have to do it this way, either,_ the man above Rose said. He'd buttoned his fly and had hauled Rose off the pool table and back to solid ground, but he still had her by the throat. _It's just more fun this way._

_I said let her go,_ Oliver repeated. His voice had gone dangerously quiet, sending a chill through me.

_Hold on to her till I'm done,_ the man said to one of the others in the crowd. This guy didn't hesitate, pulling Rose to him with a hand fisted in his hair. I yelped at the pain. Somewhere far off, I could sense Oliver – my Oliver, in the present – trying to get me back. I couldn't leave the scene, though.

_What'll you give me for her, kid?_ the man asked.

_I won't kill you,_ Oliver said calmly. _Did you want more than that, Slade?_

The man called Slade just sneered. _That's tough talk from a wizard's messenger boy. You think just because you're fucking the boss's daughter, I'm going to quake in my boots?_

Slade surveyed Oliver, seeming to take his measure before he shook his head. _Get out of here, kid. Leave me to my business, and I'll stay out of yours._

He turned, and grabbed Rose from the other man – once more, gripping her by the throat. _I'm tired of this place anyway. How about we go somewhere a bit more private, sweetheart?_

He dragged Rose toward the door. I gasped for breath, clutching at my throat, the door looming ahead. Ray couldn't see her – Rose knew that. _I_ knew that.

_Please,_ she rasped, barely able to get the word out, looking desperately for Oliver.

What happened next came in a blur – shouts and a woman's scream, a gunshot, and Slade and Oliver battling each other like warriors while Rose was tossed to the side. In the chaos, she was knocked into a wall. I felt a roar of pain, and everything went black.

"Felicity?"

I opened my eyes to find Oliver hovering over me, looking frantic. I looked around, relieved to see that I was back in the Merlyn bedroom. Back in the present.

"I'm okay," I whispered. The words came out a rasp, as though I really had been Rose in that bar. There was no part of me that didn't hurt.

Oliver stroked his hand over my forehead, fear still clear in his eyes. "What the hell just happened?" he finally managed.

"You saved her," I said. "Rose – you saved her life. In that bar in Scotland… That's how you met."

He frowned. When he was convinced I wasn't going to up and die on him, he settled back at my bedside. His hand fell to my hair once more, like he couldn't stop himself from touching me now that I was all right.

"We didn't meet that night," he said. "I saw what was happening, and I stepped in. Rose was knocked out in the fight, though, and Ray was already out cold. I took off to avoid getting arrested. Ray and I met three weeks later. I didn't even realize who Rose was until she thanked me, later – when we had a few minutes away from Ray."

"And she fell for you then," I guessed. "Hard."

He shrugged. "She thought I was something I wasn't."

"The hero who saved her life?"

He rolled his eyes. "I was no hero. Trust me."

"Apparently Rose didn't see it that way."

Silence fell between us. My throat was still sore, my body aching. The past receded, until it was just Oliver and me in the room once more.

"You should try to sleep," he said. He tipped his head a little, studying me, his hand a gentle pressure on my cheek. "You've had a decade's worth of bad days in the past forty-eight hours. You can't save the butterflies and the songbirds if you're exhausted, Felicity."

My eyes sank shut, completely against my will. "And the bees," I murmured. "Don't forget the bees."

I could feel his smile as he pressed a kiss to my forehead. "No," he agreed. "How could I, with you here to remind me. Sleep, Felicity."

And finally, unable to manage a single question more, I did.

* * *

_Thanks so much to all who have reviewed so far! I know these aren't the sexy times you may have hoped for, but I definitely want to be true to the characters and the story as I've imagined them... It doesn't really make sense for the two of them to just get on with the getting-on without a little more preparation (and angst) at this point. Hopefully you agree. Trust me, we'll get there! I'll be back in a day or two with the next chapter. As always, reviews/comments/feedback of any kind invariably make me write faster. Thanks for reading!_


	18. Chapter 18

Oliver was asleep beside me when I woke up the next morning, just as the first light was creeping onto the horizon. He lay on the bed beside me, above the blankets and fully clothed, and I shook my head. This couldn't seriously be happening.

I lay on my side for a few seconds, head propped on my hand, and studied him. He looked so peaceful, the hard line of his jaw softened in sleep. I risked extending a hand and touched his stubble, following his jaw line, up over defined cheekbones and a strong nose. I paused at his lips, considering the kiss outside my bedroom door.

_Ray can't know._

The hell he couldn't. I still didn't really understand that; what hold did Ray think he had over me? The conversation between Mara and my mother from the vision came back to me: _He understands me in ways no one else ever will._

Had he really had a relationship with a sixteen-year-old girl? Just because she looked like Rose?

Beside me, Oliver opened his eyes, stretched, and rolled to look at me, his head pillowed on his arm.

"Sorry, I couldn't handle another night in that chair. I hope this is all right."

"You could have slept in your bed," I said.

"You said you didn't want to be alone," he pointed out simply, like it was no big deal at all to forego yet another night's sleep just for me. "Besides, after that last vision I wasn't all that eager to leave you."

"It was kind of intense," I agreed.

"You, Felicity Smoak, have a penchant for understatement," he said with a smile, then hesitated. "Listen, what happened before—with the, uh…kiss…"

I nodded quickly. I'd been waiting for this conversation, had a reply all canned and ready to go. "I know – it was a really crazy day, emotions were heightened with Reggie dying and the police and everything else – trust me, it's totally understandable. I just happened to be there at the—"

He stopped me before I could finish the sentence, in the least expected way possible: he leaned in, and kissed me. "That's not what I was going to say," he said, his lips still on mine. He pulled back just slightly, eyebrows raised. "May I finish?"

I nodded again, mute.

He pulled back and wet his lips, considering, before he spoke. "You're right: it was a crazy day, and emotions were heightened. But it wasn't just because you happened to be there... I meant what I said last night, Felicity: you took me by surprise. You take me by surprise, all the time."

"And that's a good thing," I said, not exactly sure where he was going with this.

"It's a new thing." He took a breath, and released it slowly. We were still close, not quite touching but near enough that I could feel his warmth, his strength. I waited for him to continue, but instead he leaned in and kissed me again, more slowly this time. I opened when his tongue touched the seam of my lips, a little purr escaping before I could stop it. His hand slid to the back of my head, his fingers twined in my hair as I wrapped my arms around him. I winced when he pulled a little too much, sending a jolt of pain. He stopped abruptly and sat up, tensed.

"What just happened?" he asked.

"What do you mean? The kiss - do you really need me to explain that? Because frankly it seems like you have a little more experience in that department than I do."

"Not that." He touched my head again, his hand sliding to the back of my skull where he probed for a few seconds before I yelped and pulled away.

"Ow!"

I sat up, putting my hand to the spot where his had just been. At the back of my head, I felt a bump – a big one, egg-shaped and tender. Oliver was watching my every move, and I froze when his gaze fell to my neck.

"Your throat—" he said.

I put my hand to the area and swallowed experimentally. My throat hurt, my voice still a little raspy, I'd just been too preoccupied to notice till then. "It was a little sore last night," I said.

"There are bruises." He looked closer, paling visibly. "Fingerprints. In your vision last night, what happened to Rose?"

"Slade choked her," I said. The words were barely a whisper. "He had her around the throat. And then in the fight, she got thrown into the wall. Knocked out."

"She hit her head," he said. I nodded. "And you have a bump. Bruises where Slade's hand would have been."

"But it was just a vision." I felt sick.

"This has never happened before?"

"No. I just – I have the visions, and afterward I'm tired. Sometimes I have a headache. But what happens to the girl in the vision doesn't happen to me – how could it? It doesn't make any sense."

Breathing was becoming an issue, the simple act of inhale and exhale somehow beyond me. Oliver pulled himself back from whatever was going through his own head, and took my hands in his.

"Easy. You're okay."

"That's easy for you to say, you're immortal. I have visions of six girls who died tragic, early deaths – and apparently now, whatever happens to them in the vision happens to me. What happens if I see them die?"

"We'll figure this out." He squeezed my hands, but the way he looked at me had changed, somehow. He was cooler, suddenly professional. Distant. "We'll talk to Willa, and see if she has any ideas. Everything will be all right."

He let go of my hands, and stood abruptly. It was like the whole room had been doused with cold water. "I should go. I'll talk to Willa, and as soon as you're dressed you should go see her. I want her to look at those bruises, and do a thorough exam after that."

I fought the mental whiplash brought on by his about-face. "Um – okay. Whenever she gets here—"

"I'm pretty sure she's already here," he said. "She spends most nights with Quentin."

"Since when?" I asked, eyebrows up.

"A while," he said dismissively, never even coming close to a smile. "I need to run a few errands, and I should definitely get out of here before anyone sees me coming out of your room. I should be back before Roy and Sara get here, but if I'm not, wait for me before going out."

"Oliver—"

He held up a hand to stop me, a hint of regret crossing his face before it vanished. "I'm sorry," he said. "You were right, earlier: I never should have let things go this far. I like you, Felicity." His voice lingered on the words, slow and punishing. "But you need to keep your head in the game right now, and so do I. Moira was right to include the clause about romance, I think. And even if she wasn't, now that it's there you can't risk Malcolm finding out…"

I nodded numbly, fighting tears that I refused to let him see. "Yeah, of course," I agreed. "You're right – this whole thing was ridiculous anyway. You and me." I shook my head, rolling my eyes. "How crazy is that?"

"I didn't mean it like that," he said. His voice, his eyes, his manner, all softened marginally.

"It's fine, Oliver," I said lightly. "So we kissed a little." A lot. "It's not like we had sex or something. Just forget it – go, run your errands. I need to get my day going anyway."

He nodded and turned to leave, but hesitated at the door. "Felicity—"

"Just go, Oliver." My voice broke on the words. I turned away, my gaze locked on the window. Another five interminable seconds passed before I finally heard the door open and close, and he was gone.

The second I knew I was alone, the flood gates opened. It was so stupid. I was twenty-two years old; all we'd done was kiss. And okay, yes: I didn't have a lot of experience with that kind of thing. There was another foster kid at one of the homes I stayed at when I was seventeen, who inexplicably didn't trigger any visions when we touched… We'd fooled around a little before the foster parents found out and booted both of us. Since then, though, I'd steered clear of romance. It was a distraction, something meant for other people; never for me.

_I'm trying to be a better man, _Oliver had told me, in this very room.

_He could do a lot of damage to someone as trusting as you._ That was what Ray had said. And now here I was, sobbing like a schoolgirl. Apparently, he was right.

I gave myself ten minutes to freak out and curse the name of all hot men on the planet before I pulled myself together. I showered and dressed, studying the bruises around my throat in the bathroom mirror. They were already fading, and it felt like the bump at the back of my head was healing fast as well. So, maybe if I had this weird sympathy response to the girls in my visions, it was short-lasting enough to do no real damage.

At least, I really hoped so.

When I felt like a moderately normal human being again, I went downstairs to find Willa waiting for me in the kitchen. Quentin had already started a fire in the potbelly stove by the breakfast nook, and Raisa was making enough food for an army. I noted with a combination of relief and foreboding that there was no sign of Oliver.

"Eggs this morning, Miss Felicity?" Raisa asked.

"That would be great, but only if you drop the Miss and just start calling me Felicity," I said.

She nodded with a smile. "Of course. I can serve in the dining room, or—"

"The breakfast nook is fine," I said quickly. "And I can serve myself."

I stood by the fire warming my hands, and Willa joined me in short order.

"Oliver mentioned you had some trouble last night."

"A little, yes," I agreed.

"I can take a look at you in the study."

I grimaced. "Just look here – there's nothing new to see, apart from the bruises." I pulled down the collar of my shirt to let her look. She studied them, palpating gently before shifting her attention to the bump on my head.

"And nothing like this ever happened before?" she asked quietly. Raisa was still at the stove, while Quentin had a pot of coffee and set it on the table for us.

I shook my head. "No. I've had headaches and fatigue after the visions before, but never bruises or head bumps."

She nodded, considering this.

"Do you think this has something to do with what Damian Dahrk did the night before last – the modified spell?" I asked.

"I honestly don't know," she admitted, looking a bit pained. "I'll need to do some research, reach out to some friends. In the meantime, you need to be extra careful. Oliver will be monitoring you, but you should stay close to the house in case something happens."

"I can't do that," I said immediately. "I have—"

Before I could finish the sentence, I heard the front door open. I expected Oliver, but a minute later was surprised to hear female voices chattering before Sara and - to my great surprise - Thea, appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry if we're early," Sara said, looking around at the surprised faces in the room. "I had to make a pre-dawn run to the mainland this morning, and Thea hitched a ride back. She said it would be okay…"

"Of course," I said, recovering after a second. "It's – it's great. It's good. Sorry, did I know you were coming?" I asked Thea.

"It's what we talked about," she said. "Yesterday, before the..." She paled, and I hurried to fill the silence that followed.

"I didn't expect you, but I'm glad you're here. Do you want food? Raisa made…" I hesitated, realizing how rude it was to just assume there was enough when someone else had done the cooking. I looked at Raisa. "Is there…?"

"There's plenty," she assured me with a smile. "We may want to move to the dining room after all, however."

"Good idea," I agreed.

"Hey, sweetheart," Quentin said, with a welcoming grin. He gave Sara a hug, then shot a concerned look at Thea. "I thought you were supposed to be in the hospital."

Thea shrugged, then winced at the gesture. Her arm was in a sling and she still looked pale, but otherwise she seemed all right considering what had happened just twenty-four hours before.

"That would have been my father's preference," she agreed. "But I'm fine – honestly, the doctors said I'll be back in tip-top shape in no time. The bullet just grazed me."

"There was a lot of blood for just being grazed," I said.

She shrugged, still trying to be cavalier, but this time when our eyes met I saw the pain there. Her eyes filled. "I just…" Her voice broke. "I really wanted to come back here."

"It's okay," I said. Against all rational thought, blind to the consequences, I pulled her into a hug. She wrapped her good arm around me and rested her chin on my shoulder...and nothing happened.

No vision.

No flash from the past.

No voices.

Nothing.

I pulled away despite myself, the lack of visions almost as unnerving as having them.

"I'm sorry," Thea said, brushing the tears from her eyes. "I totally didn't plan on coming here and falling apart. I've just been fighting with my dad about everything, and my arm really hurts, and Reggie…." She trailed off, tears welling once more, but then gathered her resolve and met my eye.

"Anyway, I figured…screw it. I really liked what we were talking about before everything happened yesterday – the plans you have for the grounds, I mean, and I just got kicked out of another school and it's too late in the school year to enroll me somewhere else, so…" She took a deep, shaky breath. "I thought I'd come here and throw myself at your mercy. I don't have a lot of practical experience when it comes to weeding or growing things or whatever, but I definitely know how to throw a party. So…can you use me?"

She looked at me with such naked hope that I couldn't help but smile.

"What about Malcolm, though? He's against this, I would assume," I said.

"Oh, totally," she said, waving her hand like it was nothing. "Yeah, he's losing his mind right now. But he knows where I am, and I'm eighteen in a month. What's he going to do?"

I didn't really want to think about that question too much. Still, there was no clause in my agreement that said I couldn't have company at the house, and my mother had clearly been fond of Thea.

"Screw it," I finally murmured. "If your dad wants to throw more of a fit than he's already throwing, I guess that's his prerogative."

"So I can stay?"

I shrugged, and was immediately swept into another hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you – I promise you won't regret it."

I wasn't sure I believed that, but this was the first shot at family I'd ever had. I wasn't going to throw that away just because Malcolm Merlyn kind of freaked me out.

"So, how do we get started?" Sara asked. She'd been looking on, not all that comfortable with all the hugging and tears by the look of her. Personally, I was grateful to get back to business.

"Well – let's eat first, and then Oliver, Roy, and possibly Dig should be joining us soon."

"Roy - you mean that guy who was with us yesterday? He's doing this too?" Thea asked, eyes wide, the picture of innocence.

"Please," Sara said, rolling her eyes. "She hasn't shut up about the guy since I picked her up this morning."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Thea said.

"All right, ladies," Quentin said, interrupting with a clap of his hands as he gestured toward the dining room. "Food's getting cold, and I'm starved. If you're eating with us, breakfast is served."

Thea and Sara followed him toward the dining room, but Willa stopped me with a hand on my arm.

"Oliver suggested a thorough exam was in order," she started.

"I'm fine," I said. "Better than fine, actually – I haven't had a vision since the one last night, even when Willa was hugging me. I'm okay."

She looked doubtful. "If that changes…"

"I'll let you know," I assured her. "I'm sure it won't last, but for now I plan to take advantage of every second of peace I can get."

She smiled, and surprised me by patting my cheek gently. "That sounds like a fine idea. But be warned: I know Damian Dahrk. He may have given you a reprieve while you work to recover a memory of the stone, but he won't let you go so easily."

"I know," I agreed. "We'll figure it out, though. I promise."

"Aye," she said, with a brisk nod. Something about the way she looked at me, however, her eyes distant and a certain sadness to her manner, made me think that she didn't believe me.

Dig and Roy showed up at the manor a few minutes later, and were more than happy to join the rest of us for breakfast. The dining room was buzzing, the table filled, and I love the easy laughter, the casual camaraderie that already existed between most of them.

Thea and I were outsiders, but my cousin had no trouble endearing herself to the group. She hopped up more than once to help Raisa serve, until finally Roy bodily pushed her into the chair beside him.

"You're hurt," he said firmly. "You should be resting."

She blushed, her eyes lowered for a second before she pulled herself together. "Yes, sir," she murmured.

Quentin and Sara regaled us with stories from when he was on the police force working on the mainland, and then Dig picked up with his own stories of his stint in the Army. His job after that was a mystery, but it seemed to revolve around exotic locales and a lot of answers that began and ended with, "Sorry, that's need to know."

By nine o'clock, Oliver still hadn't returned and I was starting to get worried. Despite Raisa's protests, we all helped with clearing and clean up, and then reconvened in the dining room at nine-fifteen.

I handed out copies of my plan for the grounds to each of the members of my team, already thinking of things I wanted to add for each of them.

"This will be a lot of work," I told them.

Willa and Quentin had stayed, seated together at one end of the table, close but not touching. I loved the casual way they leaned in to one another to share a whispered comment, as though no boundary existed between the two. Roy and Thea sat on one side of the table, Dig and Sara on the other.

"I know you guys all have other things going on," I continued.

"I don't," Thea piped up.

"Fair enough," I said. "Well, most of you have other things going on. If we can work up a weekly schedule, I can get a sense of how much time you can devote to this." I paused. "For the record, you will be getting paid."

Thea looked at me in surprise. "They will?"

"Not everyone can kick all their commitments to the curb for charity, Trust Fund," Roy said dryly. Thea shot him a look.

"I'll have you know, I don't get my trust fund till I'm twenty-one," she said haughtily. "I may not know what it's like to have a job, but I know all too well how it feels to have somebody else pulling the strings for every meal you eat, every dress you buy."

"Well, you have a job now," I said, before anyone could call her on the comment.

"I'm getting paid too?"

"As long as you do the work," I warned. "No special considerations just because you're family. I spoke with Quentin, and we've budgeted $1500 a week for each of you, for the next three months. Since some of you have other jobs, payment is based on tasks completed rather than hours you put in."

"Fifteen hundred a week," Sara said, looking shocked. "You're serious?"

"You'll all be responsible for a different part of the grounds, but we'll work together on the greenhouse," I said. "Considering all that you'll be doing, you'll definitely earn that money."

"Can I have the grounds around the house?" Thea asked immediately. "I was thinking we could put up bird feeders, maybe even a feeding station for the deer and any other wildlife."

Roy and I exchanged a look, but I struggled to be diplomatic when I replied. She really wanted to do good for this place, I was sure of it – sometimes, it's just hard to know where to begin.

"Instead of bird feeders, let's talk about the plants most beneficial to the wildlife year round," I said. I paused, making a concerted effort not to go into lecture mode. "When people start putting out bird feeders, it creates an imbalance: birds and other wildlife congregate in one area; they neglect the things they'd eat naturally in favor of the quick-and-easy food that's handy."

"Which means the feeding area becomes a nexus for disease," Roy picked up. I was pleased to note that he stayed level, open. "You get outbreaks of mange, mites, and even rabies if you have animals like foxes and raccoons in the area. If you plant for wildlife instead, focusing on long-term balance, then everyone gets taken care of, there are no population explosions within a single species, and the food sources don't dry up – even if the people in the area move away."

Thea considered this. "So that means not even a single, cute little red mushroom hummingbird feeder?" she asked hopefully.

"How about quince trees instead," I said. "I promise, the hummingbirds won't be disappointed."

* * *

By the time Oliver finally showed up at nine-thirty, I was dying to just get everyone outside already. My eagerness took a backseat when he came into the room, however, thanks to the black eye and bloodied lip he was sporting. He nodded toward the door without answering anyone's questions, barely acknowledging the others.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" he asked me.

The others exchanged significant glances, but no one commented. I followed Oliver out of the dining room and into the hallway, closing the door gently behind me to avoid being overheard.

"What the hell happened to you?" I asked, reaching up to touch a finger to his eye. He backed away before I could make contact and I dropped my hand, stung.

"Have you had any more of the visions like last night?" he asked.

"I haven't had any more visions, period," I said. "Did you talk to Ray?"

He looked away. "We talked," he said shortly. "He said Damian may have worked some mojo to make your visions more selective, and more powerful."

"So, I won't have as many, but the ones I have will knock me on my ass," I translated.

"I think that's a fair expectation."

"Okay," I said, then shrugged. "Well… I guess I'll deal with that when it happens."

"I don't think it's a good idea for you to go out there," he said. "You need to stay close to home, where medical help is available if needed."

I bristled. "We've talked about this, Oliver. It's a non-starter. I'm here to make a difference for this island, this property, regardless of how long – or how briefly – I'm here. I'm not staying in a sick bed waiting for Damian Dahrk to cure me or strike me dead. I have more important things to do with my life."

His jaw hardened, his eyes going dark as he forced himself to take a steadying breath. "This isn't forever – it's a short-term solution, while we try to access Rose's memory of the stone. Once that's done, you'll have as long as you need to take care of this place."

"That's assuming the memory is in my head – which it may not be. And if it is in my head, it's assuming that I can actually access the memory and it's clear, and then if I can access it and it's clear, what if the stone isn't even there anymore? It's been a hundred years. Someone could have taken it by now, which means we're up shit creek without a cure. Dahrk re-issues the curse, and my sanctuary is never finished." A combination of fury and fear welled in my chest. "I don't want to die, Oliver. But if it's going to happen, I'm not going to just sit around and wait for it. Not when I could do something good with the time I have left."

"I won't let you die, Felicity," he said. There was something fierce in the words, in his eyes, that confused me. It all seemed so loaded, suddenly. What wasn't he telling me?

"You may not have a choice," I said stubbornly. "No matter how much you might not want to let me go, no one could save the Merlyn girls who came before me. I'll fight like hell to find a way out of this, but I won't stop living in the meantime."

Our eyes held, torment clear on Oliver's face. He started to reach for me, his hand hovering at my cheek before he curled his fingers to a fist and let his arm drop once more to his side. It was like he was at war with himself, like a wall had gone up between us.

"Okay," he said, his voice barely a whisper. He nodded, and cleared his throat. "You'll work on the sanctuary during the day. Evenings, though, you need to be focused on accessing that memory. I'll help you in whatever way I can."

"Thank you."

I studied his face. The bloodied lip had already healed, the bruise at his eye even now fading. "So, you're not going to tell me what happened? Did you and Ray have a fight? This morning, before you saw the bruises on my neck, it seemed like we were—"

"It was a mistake," he said shortly, looking away for the first time. "I wasn't thinking. You and me – that's not something that can happen."

"But why?" I persisted. "We could deal with the clause, if you wanted—"

"It doesn't matter what I want," he said. His voice was rough, a ferocity in the words that hadn't been there before. "Just let it go, Felicity."

An unexpected knock from the other side of the dining room door made me jump. Crap. I'd locked my brand-new staff in there so I could have a tête-à-tête about the ancient curse that may or may not kill me if I couldn't find the sacred stone my ancestor had stolen, with the gorgeous bodyguard I'd made out with – a lot – last night. And this morning.

How was this suddenly my life?

"Uh – hey," Thea said, poking her head out. "I don't want to interrupt…whatever, but it's getting kind of weird in here."

"Sorry!" I said. I yanked the door open. "We can go now, if you guys are ready to head out?"

"Been ready for going on an hour," Sara said breezily, the first to walk through the door and past them both. Thea paused, studying Oliver.

"Didn't you have a black eye like five minutes ago?"

"I heal fast," he said.

Thea rolled her eyes. "Whatever."


End file.
